The Anchor Cast Below
by frombluetored
Summary: I saw a girl one summer and thought she was ordinary, and the rest of my life was spent marveling at the fact that I could have ever been so wrong. [Finnick's POV, starting with Annie's reaping and ending during Mockingjay.]
1. Start

**A/n: **This is Finnick and Annie's story from Finnick's POV starting with Annie's reaping and ending (sadly and abruptly, all thanks to Suzanne Collins) during Mockingjay. It's a companion to my story Where Soul Meets Body but can be read with or without having read that story. To WSMB readers: these updates won't be as frequent as WSMB was, but I will do my best! I hope you enjoy, let me know if you do!

* * *

The sun rises and sets, the tide rises and falls, and I am selfish.

Bright gold nails dig into my forearm, clinging like beads of sweat on hot skin, and they all want to know the same thing: What are you like when you're alone, Finnick? Who are you when no one is watching? What do you sleep in? What do you wish for when you catch sight of a shooting star?

It's easy to answer, too damn easy, because telling the truth is never an option. I can't even tell the truth to myself. So I trace a finger down their neck, breathe against their skin, and give them beautiful lies that are almost as attractive as me. Lies such as: I am thoughtful and poetic alone, I sleep naked because I like to feel free, when I see a shooting star I wish to see you (insert name I will forget in the morning) again, again, and again.

And they absorb these lies, gasping with pleasure, sparkling with delight, bodies and hearts alight with a joy that I am giving them. Joy that robs me of my own with each passing second, each moment. Sometimes I stare at them, curled up on their sides or sprawled out on their stomachs, their backs rising and falling steadily as they sleep, and I want to ask: do you steal often? They steal from me, stole from me, will keep stealing from me.

I know this, but I just can't admit what it is that they continue to steal. And there's really no place to start this story, no beginning to the sadness inside of me, no shift in my nature. This is something that would be hard to believe if I ever admitted it to anyone at all, but I was sad before the Reaping. It doesn't start there and it doesn't end there. It starts inside of me, in my mind, where I've never quite felt like I should feel. I could always see the error in my behaviors, my words, my attitudes, but I couldn't stop doing them. I felt like a mindless robot sometimes, a slave to a sadness inside of me that stemmed from a deep seated belief that life was pointless. Boys of ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen shouldn't think things like that, but I did for as long as I remember. Maybe because I had nothing to fight for, nothing to believe in. Maybe because I didn't even believe in myself. Maybe because, deep down, I knew where I was headed before I turned eighteen. I knew I would end up in that arena one way or another, which is why I decided to volunteer when I turned sixteen. If you're going down, at least go down the way you like, right?

Of course, my mother didn't agree with this. I told her when I was young that I was going to volunteer one day, and she was furious. Things were hard for her anyway, because I was an asshole of a child, an insolent boy with no steering influence, no bright light at the end of any dark spot. With a father who died before I was born and a mother busy all of the time, I grew up starved for attention, which was easy to find when I acted cocky and ignorant. But she loved me, she loved me, she did. In her own way, whenever she could, however she could. And I loved her. But maybe not enough. Maybe not as much as I should have, could have. Maybe too late.

Things break and they broke when my plans didn't really go according to plan at all. They called my name at age fourteen, and that was two years too soon, two years too quick. I had never kissed a girl, never taken the boat out all by myself. But that's really all I was thinking about: myself. The things I didn't get to do, the things I might never get to do. When my mother sobbed into my shoulder, I was angry with her, disgusted by her weakness, frustrated by my own inability to admit to myself that I was scared and sad, too. I pushed her away and thought to myself: there is no time for weakness, there is no time for this. No time for her tears. No time for her shaky love, her uncertain conditionality. That day, when I pushed her away from me, it broke her heart. But I broke much more. The worst breaking comes later.

And it was easy after I met my fellow tributes. Easy as swimming, as breathing, as lying. They were dying and I was living. That was the new plan. I ignored the fact that, really, maybe I was dying and they were living in a convoluted way. In a relative way. In a way that I couldn't allow myself to think.

The memories of my Games are not for me, for you, for anyone. They are dark, they are disgusting, and they are terrible. I won't give them to you, I won't give them to anyone ever again, because no one deserves them. No one deserves to have to see what I saw, hear what I did, feel what I felt. So, instead, let me tell you the five things I learned, the five things that changed because of these Games:

One: I went from believing that there was a flaw in me that made me unable to love anyone more than I loved myself to believing that real love didn't exist at all. In any form. In any place, in any time. It was a hand-wrapped lie delivered to children and pretty people.

Two: I learned that the sacrifices you make to live aren't even worth the life you're fighting for in the first place.

Three: I found that what you think you left behind will look very different when you come back to it.

Four: Darkness became a gift because sometimes you don't want to know what's hiding in the corner.

Five: I realized, for the first time, that control does not exist anywhere. It's a luxury no man has, unless that man is President Snow.

To know the man I am when I am alone, you don't need to know what I saw during my Games, or how each person screamed when I dug my trident into their flesh. What you need to know is that sometimes I can't remember my Games at all and sometimes I can't stop remembering them. Sometimes I'm more frightened by the fact that I can't remember them. Sometimes I think I should have killed myself, too. Always I believe that uttering words about the month I spent in the arena is a cruel act, a vile act. A malicious act against the innocent around me. And if I won't speak them to anyone, I especially will not speak them to you, have not ever spoken them to you, will not ever speak them to you. This is not about the Games. This is about a love so powerful that it's a rebirth.

And because of this, I am starting where I want to, where I feel is the only logical place the start, the only place that I think was a true starting point to something about me (the only thing real about me): the first time I saw her.

Oh, but you already know who she is, don't you?

The sad thing is that I didn't then. Maybe if I had from the start, my life would have been a lot different. Maybe if I had, this wouldn't have started as a story about a selfish boy who turned into a numb and selfish man. But that's where I began, and I'm still happy to say that it isn't where I ended up, and that's a direct consequence of a day one summer that ruined many lives and ended up completing two in a convoluted way, a Capitol-way, a melancholically beautiful way.

I saw a girl one summer and thought she was ordinary, and the rest of my life was spent marveling at the fact that I could have ever been so wrong.

* * *

_Reaping Day of the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games_

I'm fucking sick of my prep team and the Capitol, sick of Snow, sick of everything. That's all I can really think and luckily for me, no one gives a damn and it doesn't matter.

My prep team showed up at my front door at four in the morning, jars of skin cream and curling irons in hand, and demanded to begin the day's preparations. After a coffee-less and breakfast-less morning spent sitting in a chair getting my pores and hair follicles abused, the last thing I'm in the mood for is the reaping. But I'm here on stage, in this chair, staring out at nervous faces, because here's some news they won't give to just anyone: Finnick Odair is a slave. The last time I did something just because I wanted to do it was two years ago, when I took Mags sailing for her birthday. The last time I laughed at a joke because I genuinely thought it was funny, and not because I had to, was at least six months ago. The last time I kissed someone because I liked them, because I wanted to, is nonexistent. I do what I do and say what I say and wear what I wear because I have to. I am not Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair is the Capitol. I don't really exist anymore.

You wouldn't think that were true, though, by looking from the outside. People are more than aware of my presence. I can feel all the cameras on me, even though there are two potential tributes out there in the crowd that the camera could be panning for. It would rather stay trained on me, though, because there are women with sharp nails and sticky palms in the Capitol who pay to have it that way, their way. Who pay to have me their way, too.

Life is darkness, a maze of shadowy corners and heavy hearts. The last time I remember being truly happy was when I was seven. The last time I could think back on memories and feel warmth instead of coldness was before my Games, before my abuse in the Capitol, before having to send children to their deaths. But if my life is darkness, it's mercy, because as I learned a long time ago: it's better to not see what's lurking in the shadows for you.

I'm thinking about those veiled corners, and the strange perfume the snakes hiding there spray on their satin pillowcases, the entire time the opening video is playing. Maybe no one will notice that I'm not noticing anyone or anything. But that's hardly ever the case. When you are chained in the limelight, you can't even escape into your own mind without people sending a search team in for you.

I reach over and take Mags' wrinkled and cold hand as Annora Bellamy, District 4's escort, makes her way on stage. She's even more obnoxious this year, with bright green fluorescent skin designs added to the neon yellow and pink ones she had last year. Her usual style of frilly cupcake skirts remains, but this year she's wearing a leather top that clings to her skin, with a slit traveling down the middle all the way to her navel. She catches my eye for a moment, and she seems pleased, pleased because she thinks I'm staring at her exposed chest because I like it. I would never have the energy or the freedom to tell her that I don't like it. I don't know what I like. None of the women or men I'm forced to be with appeal to me, no one seems particularly enticing or particularly beautiful. No one's small habits make me smile; I crave no one's touch or closeness. Maybe I don't like anyone or anything anymore. Maybe I never did and never could.

"Now, I will draw the lucky girl chosen to represent District 4 for the Seventieth Annual Hunger Games! Remember, volunteers will be chosen based on who volunteers first. You may not volunteer for a volunteer…"

I feel Mags' gaze on me as Annora speaks. I turn to look at her, dig up a dusty smile from the bottom of my heart, dust it off and give it to her. She smiles sadly back. Poor Mags. Another little girl to send off to die. Another little girl to bring home to bury. Mags gets attached, no one can deny it. I've been pretty good so far about keeping my distance from my male tributes. But then again, it isn't hard for me to keep distance from people. The only person on the planet who knows me, actually knows me, is Mags. Coincidentally, she's the only person who cares, too. Sometimes I wake up, screaming and sweaty, devastated from a nightmare in which Mags pays for loving me. For loving me in her own way, whenever she could, however she could. For being loved by me in return. For paying for my mistakes like my mother did. As I told Mags one day, when she begged me not to sell my soul for her life: I have already lost my mother once. I won't do it again.

I only catch the female tribute's last name as Annora's voice echoes all around us. Everyone falls silent, as it always does, and as my eyes scan the crowd I keep hearing the last name in my mind. Cresta. I imagine saying it, imagine what it would feel like, because I decide quickly that it rolls of the tongue quite nice. The mentor part of my brain is already thinking of ways we could play on that, ways it could help her roll of the tongue, too. But then I remember that I can't care, won't care.

Movement in the sea of frozen people tips me off to who her family is. There's a little boy, screaming with his face pale and his eyes wide, and an older girl, maybe mid-twenties, who looks like she might pass out. And an older man, who must be the father, who I'm sure is going to vomit right onto the stones.

It doesn't take long to find the girl, because everyone's eyes are turned to her, imploring her to move. She's got her body turned away from the stage, her gaze back on her stricken family. I can't see her face, but my eyes find her hands, curled tight into tense fists. I take in her uneven breathing, the slight build of her body, and decide I've seen enough. I turn and glance at Mags quickly, because I'm wondering if she knows what I know already. That this girl is a guaranteed goner.

"Come on up, Miss Annie Cresta!" Annora sings.

Annie. It's a cute name, one that I've never heard used in District 4 before. And when I turn to watch her finally begin her journey up to the stage, I decide she's kind of cute, too. At first I'm disappointed by her ordinariness. Disappointed by her thin legs peeking out from underneath her dress and the fragile curve of her shoulders. Disappointed by her pale skin and brown hair. Disappointed by the fact that there's really not much that can be done with her. But then she trips on the last step up to the stage, her unusually light skin flushing a gentle pink immediately, and instead of being frustrated and horrified by this immediate show of weakness, I decide that she is as cute as her name. But then I glance back at Mags and I see the truth reflected in her worried eyes: cute gets you nowhere in the Games but dead.

I'm horrified when I hear a small sound, though, one that floats over to my ears easily from my spot on stage. I lay my gaze on her once again, and as I stare at the dip between her shoulder blades, I realize by the light shaking of her shoulders that she's crying. Mags' open mouthed look of horror reflects how I feel, too. You don't cry on the reaping stage. You don't do it. I'm angry all at once, my face flushing and my heart picking up speed. I'm angry with the pathetic identity she just gave herself all at once. But you don't care, Finnick. Remember that?

Things only get worse when the male tribute is called. He's short and stocky, but young. Very young. He shakes hands with the female tribute, and I can see his shaking a bit.

Mags doesn't have to say anything as we follow after them. We'll be done with the Games quickly this year.

* * *

Mags and I wait on a sofa in a room near the rooms they place the new tributes in for their final goodbyes.

Mags leans her head against my shoulder and says nothing. I breathe in the scent of lavender she always carries and spend a while trying to figure out why I feel the way I do. I feel furious and I don't know why, I just know that I do. I feel restless, and I know if Mags wasn't leaning against me, I'd be angrily pacing back and forth. Maybe pulling at my hair and screaming, too. I worry for a moment that I'm going to cry, but I haven't let myself do that since the first time I was forced to sleep with a man.

I realize the root of my anger suddenly, when that same woman I remember seeing walks in. She doesn't resemble the female tribute at all in any ways I can see, but yet I know immediately she's her older sister. There's something similar about them in a way that isn't tangible, something in the way she walks maybe, or blinks, or presses a palm to her tear-streaked face. I realize that I'm angry with this woman's sister, the girl locked away in a room now, probably crying into her hands. This anger leaves me feeling uncomfortable, because I know there's no reason to be mad at that tribute. I know it isn't right to. But I get this urge suddenly to walk into that room and grab her brown hair and pull her head back so she's looking up at me. I can see the smooth milky skin of her neck, the faint green and blue lines of veins, the sharpness of her collarbones, that rose blush staining underneath her skin. I can't picture her mouth, nose, or eyes, because I didn't look that closely at her, but I can imagine the feeling of my hand knotted in her hair, the tautness of it as I pulled her head back, the smoothness of it between my fingers. And this mental imagine, this sudden urge, leaves me more upset than I've let myself be in a long time. Is this what I am becoming? A man who gets so angry at a little, scared girl that he'd be angry enough at her to want to hurt her? A man who cares enough to even get that angry?

I'm rising abruptly to leave, suddenly certain that I can't be trusted around anyone, when I feel a surprisingly strong, but small, hand wrap around my forearm. I tense automatically, as I have ever since my Games, but I relax when I look down and see the owner of this hand is just a little boy, maybe around seven years old. He's the tribute's brother without a doubt. He has a similar coloring to him, a similar gentleness in his gait and posture. He has a fierceness, too, that I find myself hoping that she has as well. He stares me squarely in the eye and doesn't falter as I offer him a smile.

"You gotta teach her to use a trident. You gotta or…or…I'm gonna kick you!" He exclaims. His voice is small and shaking, and a moment later tears are swimming in his eyes. I can't help but imagine what she means to him, what their life must be like. I bet she takes care of him. I bet he loves her deeply. I didn't see a mother standing with that terrified family, and for a moment I wonder if, when he loses her, it will feel like losing a mother all over again. Like how I would feel if I lost Mags.

I feel my anger giving way to a sadness that I'm not sure I prefer. I stoop down so I'm eyelevel with him and set a hand on his shoulder. He's crying openly now, tears dripping off his small chin and his eyes shut.

"What's your name, buddy?" I ask him carefully. He sniffs and looks up to meet my eyes. His are a deep green; a green that I know must be a shade similar to mine when they aren't soaked with tears. I wonder briefly if his sister has these eyes, too.

"Arnav Cresta. Annie is my sister and she's my best friend, too, and you know what?"

His voice is small and sad, with tremors every few syllables. I feel my throat tightening. There's something about this child that I can't place, something that pulls at my heartstrings, which shouldn't even exist anymore in the first place.

"What, Arnav?" I ask.

A quiet desperation shines in his expression.

"She doesn't deserve to die. Meet her, you'll see, I promise. She's the nicest and you'll love her too." He says. He reaches up and wipes at his eyes. "And you gotta teach her to use the trident, because I want her to stay."

I don't feel okay suddenly, and I think I definitely might cry. Whatever anger I was feeling at this girl is long gone. Now I just feel sorry for her and for this kid. It's this sorrow that causes me to give him a brief hug, something that surprises me probably more than him. I rise back up to my feet after that, and I can't make him any promises that I can't keep. Still, I find myself speaking.

"I'll take care of her, okay?" I lie.

The boy, Arnav, seems immensely soothed by these words. His tears stop and he stands up straighter. From the corner of my eye, I see the sister leave a room that must be the female tribute's, her entire body shaking with hysterical sobs. I can't help it; suddenly I want to shield this little boy from her tears, because I know it's going to upset him again, and his eyes have only just begun to brighten.

"Thank you, Mr. Odair." Arnav tells me.

I have to walk from the room before I see him succumb to tears again. Once I'm alone in a small, cramped bathroom, I punch the wall four times, until my hand is stinging more than my eyes. I look in the mirror after that and stare at the lines of my jaw, the shine of my hair. I look beautiful to everyone but myself.

"I'm stronger than this." I whisper out loud, feeling foolish. But I have the urge to convince myself of this. I'm Finnick Odair. I killed over twelve people. I can handle crying little boys and their crying big sisters easily.

I don't leave the confines of the bathroom until I've convinced myself of this fact once again. But even when I'm feeling strong again, I can't help but remember the lie I told that boy, and how trusting he looked at me after I did.

* * *

I don't know why I do it for sure, but after I meet Chiron (the male tribute), I find my feet carrying me to the female tribute's room only an hour after the train sets out on its course to the Capitol. I know it's a bad idea, but I knock against her door anyway. Maybe I just want to see if her eyes are the same shade as her brother's. Maybe I want to see who could inspire a little boy to approach and threaten Finnick Odair. Maybe I want to see if he was telling me the truth. But more than likely, I'm driven by guilt over lying to him, and a desire to make it so that wasn't a lie after all. Regardless of the reasons, I'm curious about her. I'm curious because, already, this day has turned out so different than it normally is. That brief bout of anger I had at this little girl was more intensity than I have felt in a very long time. The sadness her brother made me feel momentarily was more than I've felt in a very long time, too. It's damn stupid, but I think I'm drawn to her because I'm interested to see what having a conversation with her will be like, if just those brief tangles with her life could instigate emotion inside of me (me, a person who already decided a long time ago that they wouldn't let themselves feel anything but numbness ever again).

I'm irritated when she doesn't answer the door. I knock again and wait for a few more moments, but no one comes. I know I shouldn't do it, but I open the door anyway. The doorknob is cool and the gush of air that hits me as the door slowly pushes open is colder. I peek in the doorway, my eyes searching over the smooth wood furniture and sleek metal panels impatiently. I spot her sitting on the edge of the bed, her face ducked down and her eyes shut. I worry that she's crying, but it's too quiet for that. She's not doing anything, not saying anything. Just sitting there, looking oddly vacant and invisible, and I'm jealous. Jealous because she isn't chained to the limelight. She probably disappears a lot.

She didn't seem to hear the door open. I know I should say something, but I'm hesitant. I run sentence after sentence over in my head, trying to figure out what to say to her without sounding heartless or boring or egocentric or stupid. I catch myself a moment later and give my head a shake, because since when have I ever had to worry about what to say to a girl? I'm Finnick Odair.

"The Capitol better be glad your little brother is too young to be reaped. I have a feeling he'd set the arena on fire and then take the Capitol down with it."

Her eyelids lift immediately and the sight of her green eyes makes something tug at the bottom of my stomach. It's just because it makes me think of her brother's pain, it has to be, but it's still disconcerting. I smile at her, and she seems to calm when I do. Her shoulders relax and she crosses her ankles. This forces my feet forward and they carry me into the room, over to the bed, down beside her. The easy familiarity of my actions throws her off, and it throws me off, too, because it was something I did automatically and not because I felt like I had to.

"He cornered me at the Justice Building. He grabbed my arm and demanded that I teach you how to use a trident, or he would kick me." I explain. Her eyebrows furrow momentarily, and then the corners of her lips twitch up. I'm laughing a second later, and she's following, and I'm surprised by her laughter. It's carefree and gentle, and blissfully happy, even if I know she must be miserable. I feel jealous again, but this time for her innocence, her happiness. I think I'd rather die as this girl than live as me.

Her laughter trails off gently, and then her eyes shine with tears again. I think to myself then that she's very odd. She moved from such easy laughter to such pain in a millisecond, and I almost feel whiplash from the quick transition. She must feel more in an hour than I've felt in the past four years.

I turn to face her fully and stick out my hand for a handshake, taking this opportunity to really get a look at her. She takes my hand weakly, her hand soft and small and feeble, and my eyes scan over her face. There's a loveliness there that I didn't see from a distance, and a maturity, too. Her cheekbones are pleasantly defined, her face heart-shaped, her lips full and eyes large. There's a peppering of light freckles over the bridge of her nose, which is the only thing I can see about her that would tip anyone off to the fact that she lives in 4. Her eyebrows are thin, dark arches that counteract the lightness of her skin with a surprisingly aesthetic contrast. This contrast is repeated in her face over and over, with the darkness of her long, wavy hair and light skin, her seagreen eyes and dark, thick eyelashes, her rose lips and white teeth. And I'm an idiot, because I find myself wanting to ask her if she knows she's beautiful. I feel shocked when I realize that, yes, I do think she's beautiful. I haven't thought anyone was truly beautiful in a long time, but she is. She is in a way I can't place, a way that is a combination of both her physical appearance and the softness she gives off. I give her hand a gentle squeeze and admit to myself that it's hard to look away. Her hand falls back to her lap, and she gazes down at it, and I gaze at her. It's just nice suddenly to like something, even if it's something as simple as this girl's face. It's been so long since I've liked anything at all. Is this how people feel when they look at me?

"I'm Finnick Odair." I introduce myself, even though I know everyone knows who I am. "I'll be mentoring Chiron. Mags will be mentoring you."

_Mags is lucky, _I think. And then I am disgusted with myself for thinking that. She isn't a piece of art to look at any more than I am. Is that what I want? To treat people like they treat me?

She nods, her eyes glued to her knees. I follow her gaze, and I smile at the sight of the lace hem of her dress against the smooth skin of her thighs.

"I'm Annie Cresta." She finally says apologetically. Her voice is as soft as her laughter and somehow exactly what I expected but not at the same time. It's got the softness that I figured it would have, but her speech is much clearer and enunciated than most people in District 4. My eyes scan over her dress, which despite its nice color and cleanness, is obviously a dress of a family that is neither badly off nor perfectly secure. This is echoed in her body structure, which is healthy enough that I know they don't go without food on the table, but lean enough that I know they don't get a chance to eat anything but the run-of-the-mill snapper most nights. I had expected from this that she dropped out of school like most who aren't wealthy in District 4 do, but her speech is surprisingly educated, her voice oddly sophisticated. I'm surprised, but more surprised by the tone in which she said these words. She said them like she was sorry, like she was apologizing for being herself, and I can't help but think that that's really strange for someone so pretty to say. I wonder then if maybe no one else finds her as pretty as I do. If maybe she is treated poorly at home because of that. I don't like the thought of that and I'm not sure why.

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Annie." I say honestly. "Although I would have preferred different circumstances."

"I would have much rather met you at the market." She says.

I grin, fighting back laughter at those words. The market? Why the market?

"The market! That would have been a great place to meet you." I agree. I can't help but continue, my imagination getting away from me because I'm suddenly thinking that she'd look very pretty beside green apples, with her hair pulled back and the tears off her face. "I would be standing by the fruit stand, trying to figure out what to purchase while groups of girls crowded around me. Desperate to talk to me, of course. Can you blame them?" I wink.

She smiles a true smile and leans towards me a bit, her hands still folded in her lap.

"And I would accidentally knock into your posse while trying to get out of the store, because they always seem to be clogging the exits." She jokes.

That they do. It's annoying actually, but funny right now, so I can't help but laugh.

"And then you would give up trying to leave and instead come join my adoring fans." I purr. I lean forward a bit and give her my best seductive smile. I'm curious to find out if she's an adoring fan. If she will cave under this look. If maybe, if I were to lean in, she would want me to kiss her. I'm testing her, and she passes with flying colors.

"Or really I would push through because I have places to be." She argues.

I feel a rush of pleasure at these words. I lean back on my hands and bite back a pleased smile. It's easy to talk to her, easier than talking to people I've known for years. Perhaps because she's different in a way I can't yet place, but can sense.

"Then I would immediately rush to your aid, because that is the kind of knight in shining armor Finnick Odair is. We would exchange names as I help you carry your groceries."

Maybe in another place and another time I could have done that. I could have kept my promises to her sad little brother. Not here, though. I watch her fiddle with a rope bracelet on her wrist, a small smile still peeking out from underneath the curtain of hair that's fallen into her face. I get an abrupt urge to push it back behind her ear, and it throws me off. I never want to willing touch anyone. Maybe I'm coming down with the flu.

"That would have been a nicer way to meet." She whispers, and just like that the emotion in the compartment shifts completely, like she's in charge of it somehow. I reach forward to push that hair behind her ear, but then I remember that I don't know this girl. I don't know her, and no matter how easy she is to joke with, I can't do that. I can't do it because I wanted to, and that scares me. Instead I reach over and pat her shoulder to make an excuse for my sudden motion. I can't meet her eyes.

"It would have been." I say.

I rise to my feet and move to the door, turning around when my hand has reached the doorframe.

"We're meeting for dinner in about ten minutes." I tell her, and then I'm winding my way out of her room and down the hallway to my own room, where nothing can shake me.

Or, that's the way it should be, but when I enter Mags is sitting on the edge of my bed.

"What's wrong?" She demands, right when I walk in.

I stop and stand in the middle of the room, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable somehow. I turn my gaze to the ceiling.

"Nothing. Dinner's soon, we should head down." I say.

I cross over to the dresser against the wall to my left and fumble through the drawers for a light jacket or shirt to put on. My prep team always dresses me in these ridiculous dress shirts that are too small (so I won't button them up) and the train is drafty. I hear the bed creak as Mags stands.

"You're acting weird. Was it the little boy this morning?" She asks.

I can't lie to Mags, it's one of my biggest flaws. I pull a cardigan from the top drawer and shut it, turning around to face her. I drape it over my arm and sigh.

"Yes. No. I don't know." I admit. I find myself thinking about Annie Cresta's face again, without meaning to, and that spurs my next question. "She's very pretty, isn't she? Annie?"

Mags raises her eyebrows in surprise, and I'm quick to refute what she's implying.

"Not like that! I just mean, you know, from an objective point of view. An aesthetic point of view."

I want to hear that she's as pretty to other people as she is to me, because I have this odd feeling that I'm seeing something that no one else sees, and I don't like it. Just like after leaving her room I got this feeling that she was seeing something no one else sees, too. She makes me uncomfortable, I decide. Her eyes are too wide and too green. She's too emotional. She says strange things. Even worse, she makes me say strange things, too. Mags would scold me for thinking that, she would say that I can't make these assumptions based on one encounter with the girl. But that odd feeling still hasn't left me.

Mags stares evenly at me for a moment.

"I suppose." She finally says. "She's pretty in a cute, plain kind of way."

I nod and avert my gaze again. Mags steps nearer.

"Finnick…do you have a _crush_?" She asks me incredulously. She glares at me in disapproval, because her biggest advice for me as a mentor has always been to not get attached to the tributes. _That's my mistake to make,_ she said. And having a crush on one would definitely go against that advice.

Ilook up at her and roll my eyes, because that's ridiculous. I haven't had a crush on anyone since I was thirteen. I never will again. I like nothing and nothing likes me.

"No, of course not. She's like fifteen." I scoff.

"Seventeen." Mags corrects. Really?

"Seventeen, then." I sneer jokingly. This makes her laugh.

"Besides, she's not my type." I say.

Mags gives me an almost pitying look.

"You don't have a type, Finnick." She says. Mags knows me better than I know myself, so I know that must be true. Is true.

"Well, even if I did, she wouldn't be it. She's too…much."

Mags nods, but I can tell she's fighting back a grin.

"Okay then." She says breezily.

I groan. "Oh, come on, Mags! Don't tease me about this, I don't have a crush! I was just making an observation!"

"Since when do you make observations?" She demands.

I falter. "All the time!" I hedge. I hesitate. "Like just last week when I made an observation that you needed to water your petunias."

"Right, well, just remember where we are and where she's headed. I don't want to see you hurt." She reminds me sternly.

I look her squarely in the eye as I say my next words.

"I don't care about Annie Cresta." I tell her.

I think I convince her, because she nods a few moments later. I know it must be true, because I can't lie to Mags. Only to myself and everyone else.

* * *

By the time dinner is halfway over, I've convinced myself that I'm just having an off day and there's nothing strange about Annie, or our conversation, or the way I might have felt.

She's very quiet during dinner, and I don't look at her much. She is the only one at the table making any sort of effort to talk with Annora, who won't shut up, which makes me feel like Arnav must have been right about saying she's nice. But even she doesn't have much to say.

She manages to surprise me near the end of the meal by saying something to Annora that I've yet to hear a tribute say out loud before.

"Oh, you're going to be so shocked by the grandeur. It's not at all drab like District 4. There are colors everywhere and breathtaking art and fashion. It's wonderful." Annora gushes.

Annie's quiet but sure when she speaks up, offering her opinion for the first time during this painful and dull dinner conversation led by Annora.

"I can't think of anything nicer than home." She says.

Mags stops trying to cut her chicken beside me and falls still, and I turn to look at Annie in shock. A couple tributes might have felt this way, too, but none of them have ever said that to Annora during her Capitol-gushes. Most of the youth in District 4 hate it and spend all their time wishing there was a way to escape to the Capitol to live. It's these children who end up volunteering, but volunteers are something we haven't had in the past two years. After I won, there was an influx of eager volunteers wanting a happy story like mine. After they all died pretty quickly into the Games, that fairytale shattered and no one wanted to volunteer.

Annora looks mildly insulted. I think she's going to yell at Annie, but she merely smiles tightly and begins talking about how Annie's "content" is charming, but the Capitol is greater than all. I decide to save Annie from one of Annora's long rants, because it's the least I can do.

"Well, you know Annora, District 4 has me. You can't deny that I'm nicer to look at than a lot of the "art" in the Capitol." I say, lowering my eyelids and smirking at her for good measure. She giggles immediately like the open book she is.

"Well, you are a masterpiece that the Capitol can only have part of the time. That's quite true." She agrees eagerly.

Mags speaks up for the first time during the meal a minute later.

"You should eat." She says. Her voice is concerned, and I naturally think she's talking to me at first. I look down at my half-empty plate, confused. But then I see that she's looking at Annie who, sure enough, has a full plate of food.

"I don't think I can." She tells Mags.

"Try." Mags encourages.

I watch Annie look slowly down at the Capitol food on her plate, and feel an unexplained squeeze of my heart when her nose scrunches up a bit. I don't even think she notices, because she's been trying her hardest to be as polite as possible during this meal.

She looks up suddenly and locks eyes with me. I feel self-conscious then and I struggle for something to say to explain why I was looking at her.

"Have you thought about what you're going to do yet?" I ask her. I immediately feel like an idiot, because of course she hasn't. The poor girl just found out she's headed to her death, she probably hasn't had time to think of much else.

I expect a shake of her head, or maybe a shrug, but she parts her pink lips and that same soft, eloquent voice fills the dining room.

"All I can think about is how I wish this day would have gone. I have no idea what to do." She says.

The honesty of this statement makes everyone feel awkward. I see Chiron staring diligently at his plate (which is really not that much of a change from what he's been doing this entire dinner—the guy has less interest in us than we do in him) and Annora looks politely in the opposite direction, clearing her throat slightly. I'm just shocked to hear someone admitting how they really feel for once, without thinking about the pros and cons of it. It's obvious it's something natural for Annie, but it's not natural here in the Capitol, and it's not natural to me, the man who lies more than he tells the truth.

I keep my eyes on her and, without meaning to, I begin remembering the night I was reaped. I know that feeling all too well, the feeling of feeling absolutely helpless and trapped.

"I know what you mean." I tell her, hoping maybe that will ease her a bit. "Don't worry, you and Mags will figure out something."

After all, she got me through my Games.

"I'm mentoring Chiron." Mags says abruptly.

It takes a lot of effort to keep from looking at Mags in shock. I quickly make my expression neutral, like I knew this was going to happen, but Mags never said anything about this to me. We never do it that way. I always mentor the boy, she mentors the girl. The last time it was different was when it was my Games. She mentored me and her male counterpart mentored the female tribute. Does she think switching the genders like that provides some good luck? And didn't she just get finished telling me that I don't need to get close to Annie Cresta?

"Why?" Annora questions.

"Because it is going to be best." Mags snaps.

Best for whom? I look at Annie, who's looking at Chiron, and try to read her expression. I'm curious for a moment as to whether or not she is happy about this. Did her stomach drop when Mags said that? Did her heart leap? Or was she completely indifferent to it all? I want to know.

Chiron looks relieved anyway, and I can't say I'm mad. He's been a little snobby shit the entire time. He hasn't talked to any of us once, just flat out ignores us. I could do without that.

When Mags stands up to leave the table, I quickly follow her out. It isn't until we're in a sitting room with the door shut that she explains.

"You talk different with that girl." She tells me. She says it like it's her grand explanation, but that explains nothing to me.

"What are you talking about? Mags, why would you say that without talking to me first? Maybe I don't like her. Maybe I don't want to mentor her." I say, anger licking at my heels and threatening to overtake me.

"You were just telling me before dinner how pretty you think she is." Mags says impatiently.

"Yes! Pretty! Physically pretty! That has nothing to do with what I think of her personality or if I get along with her or—or if I even want to be around her at all!" I exclaim.

Mags rolls her eyes and hobbles over to the sofa. I help her sit down even though I'm angry. Sometimes I forget Mags is so old, because she has the spirit of a much younger person, but it's evident when she tries to walk or sit.

"You seemed to be getting along okay with her tonight. You were being sweet even. Finnick, I don't think I've ever seen you be sweet to anyone." She accuses me.

I gape at her and struggle for words.

"What? I'm sweet! I'm sweet all the time! Hell, I'm the sweetest guy around! I just bought you that book a few weeks ago, remember?" I say.

She stares at me with an expression that clearly means she isn't taking my shit today.

"You're nice to me. You are my son, Finnick. But you are not _sweet_ to anyone. Not like that, not protectively." She said stubbornly.

I think she's ridiculous, because I don't remember being all that sweet to Annie at all. All I did was reassure her. What's the big deal? Although, I guess compared to the detached relationship I normally keep with tributes, it appears as a big deal to Mags.

"You still didn't even ask me if I wanted to be her mentor. You didn't even ask me what I think about her." I grumble. I fall down beside her on the sofa, glaring at the floor. Mags pats my arm.

"There, there, little Finn." She teases. I pull my arm away. She continues, and I can hear the smile in her voice. "What do you think about her, then?"

"No, it's too late now. You were supposed to ask before." I argue.

She sighs in irritation. "Well, I'm sorry, Finnick. But I liked seeing that side of you. It reminds me of you before your Games. And I think she'll be good for you and that you will be good for her too."

I cross my arms over my chest.

"Yeah, well, you're old." I refute.

"I'm wise." She corrects. "Now shut up and get over your pride. You have a tribute to mentor, and I hear from reliable sources that she's a _pretty_ one." She teases.

I rise to my feet and march to the door without turning back to look at her.

"I'm never telling you anything again." I say.

She laughs at this.

* * *

I'm still a little irritated when I get back to my room. I'll show Mags. I'll prove to her that she's being ridiculous. She can't listen to Annie and I exchange a few words and decide that we're "good" for each other. We're strangers. I'm strange. She's stranger.

I order a mug of iced tea and curl up on top of the blankets with a book, but I can't relax. It's been a while since my stomach's been in knots over the women and men I'm going to have to touch and be touched by once I'm in the Capitol; I'm numb to it now. But something is making me feel like I've got something to do, or somewhere to be, so I can't fully unwind.

I don't even consider that it could be that girl until an Avox is bringing me a tray of cookies and I'm asking her a question that I didn't even think of asking before it left my lips.

"Did Annie ever eat her dinner tonight? Did you see?" I ask her.

She shakes her head, and all at once I'm sitting up and asking her for a tray of fruit. It's easy to get and something that we have back home, so it will be familiar. And maybe it will remind Annie of the way we joked and said we wished we had met. Maybe that would make her a little happy. What makes her happy? I want to know that, too. Is it the same things that make the women in the Capitol happy? Is it the same things that make me happy? What?

The Avox leaves and I pull my shoes and shirt back on. By the time I'm dressed again, she's entering the room with the tray. She hands it to me and offers me one of the first smiles I've ever seen her give. I grin back, surprised.

It's late, but I know Annie won't be asleep. Which of those twenty four tributes is going to be able to sleep tonight?

I knock anyway, because it's near bedtime and she could be changing or something.

"It's open." She calls.

I push the door open and stick my head in. She's sitting in the middle of the huge bed, wrapped up in what looks like three thick blankets. Her eyes are tired and her face paler than it's been all day.

"Can I come in?" I ask her.

She nods slowly, her eyes wide and almost suspicious. And why wouldn't she be suspicious? All she knows of me is what the Capitol sells: that I'm a smooth-talking sex god who has sex with anyone. I don't want her to think that, though. I don't want to be that with her. Maybe because she's got an odd innocence about her, one that makes me want to seem just as good and wholesome in her eyes.

I walk in the rest of the way and carry the tray over to her bed. I set it down by the footboard and sit down beside her blanket-encased body. She stares at me, the question in her eyes.

"I thought you might be hungry. You haven't eaten anything since this morning." I nod at the tray. Her green eyes leave mine and take to examining the tray instead. She looks back at me a moment later.

"Why do you care?" She asks me bluntly. Her voice is tired and something about the resigned tone makes me sad.

I stare at her uncertainly, because of all the questions I expected, this wasn't one of them. I have to remember to smirk, to be who I'm supposed to be.

"Because you're Finnick Odair's tribute. And I can't have you fainting in the chariot tomorrow. My tributes have done poorly enough in the arena as it is, I'd hate to lose one before the Games even start. Image how bad that would look!" I say. But that isn't true at all. I don't care how I look. I don't want to admit it to her, and definitely not Mags, but maybe I do care just a little bit. That's okay, though, right? Because mentors are supposed to care about their tributes. It's okay for me to be worried about her, to be a little haunted by the idea of her fainting and crumbling to the ground, her dark hair floating in a pool of blood. I did tell her brother I'd look out for her.

My skin prickles and my stomach drops at her next words.

"You put on a good act." She says.

I'm lucky that she chooses that moment to inspect the tray and choose a piece of fruit, because I know my face must be paling. I feel tense, like something terrible is about to happen. No one is supposed to think I'm an act. They're supposed to think this is just me. Yes, she definitely makes me uncomfortable.

"Well, you know." I quickly work to recover. "My acting skills are craved after in the Capitol. Well, those and other skills." I wink. She laughs easily at that.

"I think you are nicer than you pretend to be." She continues.

I start to tell her that, no, I'm mean. I'm mean and selfish. It's the truth, but it's a truth I don't really want her to know. Because she's so nice, and I want to be nice like that, too. She can think I'm nice if she wants. Maybe if she thought that I was, I could be. Maybe I am being nice. Is bringing food to someone nice?

I toss a grape into my mouth and make a decision.

"It seems I am." I say. I pause thoughtfully. "Maybe more people will like me now!"

She smiles at my joke, and I'm happy for a moment as I watch her pluck the green bits off a strawberry. I don't know where the happiness comes from, or why it's here, but I let it stay covering me for as long as it wants. I watch her bring the strawberry to her lips and bite down, and the colors' contrast is so lovely. Maybe I was meant to be a painter.

Her voice breaks the comfortable silence suddenly.

"My sister calls me Shell." She tells me, out of the blue. I raise my eyebrows, slowly becoming uncomfortable once again. I think it makes me so uneasy because I'm not used to not being able to predict someone's next words or next moves.

"That's a strange nickname for a girl named Annie." I say. I wait for her to explain, curious to know what's going on in her mind and why that was said.

"I've made jewelry with seashells my whole life practically. And she says I'm fragile just like one." She explains, a little sheepishly. She looks down at her hands for a few moments and then looks back up at me carefully, just in time to see the smile that spreads out over my face. Things make a bit more sense then. I can place her in my mind. She's without the typical tan and more educated than most because she doesn't work on the sea all day. She probably gathers the shells in the morning before school and works in a covered space after it. It's different from what I expected, and I like it. She's the first mystery of this new life I have here in the Capitol.

I'm just about to tell her that she's probably not as fragile as she seems when she speaks again.

"Finnick?" She asks.

"Annie?" I tease.

I kind of stop for a long moment when she gives me an almost surprised smile. It's different than her others, much sweeter and happier and smaller, and I decide it's my favorite. If I were a painter, and I were painting her, this is the smile I would want to paint.

"If I wrote a letter, would you mail it to my sister in the Capitol?" She asks.

It's those words that remind me of all the sad things I had momentarily forgotten. Things like: President Snow controls me. Annie is a tribute headed to her death. People I end up caring about usually end up dead.

I begin nodding my head and then give her the answer President Snow would want me to give, while silently giving her the one I really want to.

"No."

She lifts one eyebrow, something that I find oddly endearing, and I quickly explain.

"It's against the rules. If someone even heard me saying that I would, it probably wouldn't be good for anyone involved. So I can't."

By anyone involved, I really just mean her. Because if Snow sees me going out of my way to do something like that for her, he will begin to think that I care for her, and if he thinks that, she might end up punished somehow. Even though she's about to undergo one of the worst punishments there is.

Her face flushes for reasons unknown to me.

"Well, thank you anyway." She mutters.

"No problem. What would you need to say so badly that you couldn't have said it at the Justice Building?" I inquire. I push the bowl of fruit her way again to remind her it's there. She picks up a blueberry.

"When my sister came to see me, all she did was beg me to win. She wouldn't let me say goodbye like I needed to. Well, she didn't keep me from doing it, but it would have broken her heart. I couldn't do that to her. But I wanted to tell her not to watch it."

She is definitely a nicer person than I am.

I quickly try to fix the worrisome last sentence she spoke.

"Not to watch what? The Games?" I ask nervously.

She nods. "It would break her heart to see me killed. I don't want her to have to see that."

But Snow does. Snow wants everyone to have to see that. That's why it's mandatory viewing. Surely she knows that?

"Well, you know it's mandatory viewing." I remind her. "So she has to. But I understand what you mean." I make sure my voice is projected so any potential bugs in this room will catch it. I highly doubt Snow bothered to bug this room (he usually just bugs mine) but I won't let anyone pay for my carelessness.

I push forward. "And don't count yourself out so quickly. You've got the hottest and most talented mentor there is. Don't count me out so quickly, either."

I tell her this even though I counted myself out long ago. Even though I don't have faith in myself at all. But I think she could have faith in me—even if it was misguided faith—and maybe if she believed in me I would too.

She points at herself. "Seashell, remember?"

I lean back against the footboard and look over her carefully. I eye her long fingers, the gentle curve of her breasts, the slope of her waist, the firmness of her thighs. She looks stronger than she sounds. And more importantly, she has managed to somehow charm me, and if she can do that she can charm anyone. Favor with the audience gets you far.

"You know what I think, _Seashell_?"

She shakes her head. I push the bowl towards her again and wait until she's munching on a piece of apple.

"I think you're a lot stronger than you think you are."

She must be, because even though she fell apart on stage, she's been keeping herself together remarkably well. She's probably falling apart in private, but the fact that she can keep herself together right now, even when talking about her imminent death, tells me more about her than what she does for a living.

She must not agree with this, because she chokes on the apple she's eating as she starts laughing incredulously. I reach over and pat her back until her coughing stops. She looks at me in shock.

"Not that I don't trust your keen eye, Finnick, but I'm honestly hopeless when it comes to this. I spend my spare time quilting. I'm in the same weight class as twelve-year-olds. I've never held a weapon in my life."

I work hard to keep my face unaffected. I merely offer her the bowl again. She rolls her eyes and takes a strawberry.

"I think you're counting yourself out." I continue stubbornly. "You are obviously strong enough to put your sister's emotional needs before your own. You gave her the words she needed to hear when you were supposed to be saying goodbye. As for talents, I know for a fact you can tie knots and make nets. I'm also fairly certain you can swim."

She's quiet for a moment, and then she confirms that yes, she can tie knots and make nets. And she can swim.

"Well, that's three advantages you have right there. Just because you're not a master swordsman doesn't mean you are going to die for a fact. We are going to work together, okay? We'll find a weapon you feel comfortable using. I'm going to teach you how to protect yourself. And then we'll work out a strategy for the Games."

She stares at me with so much trust that I feel sick.

"Okay." She says.

I rise after that. I'm not feeling my best. I'm usually not feeling my best, though, so it's easy to work past.

"Now, eat the rest of your fruit. I want you looking buff and strong the next time I see you." I joke.

She takes another piece and smiles.

"Better be careful or I'll be stronger than you."

I stop and stay near the door, that same odd and abrupt feeling of happiness washing over me for a moment. It passes quickly.

"Oh Annie, I hope so." I say quietly, and then I close the door before I have to see that look in her eyes again.

It isn't until I'm under my blankets that I understand why I feel so terrible. It wasn't just the trust in her eyes. It was the fact that, while trying to convince her that she had a chance, I somehow managed to convince myself that she does too.


	2. Thief

**A/n: **The rating has changed from T to M. I'm sorry if this is disappointing to anyone, but it is impossible to do this correctly without there being anything explicit! Sorry for the wait as well. It has been a very hectic few weeks. I hope you enjoy! Thank you all so much for the feedback :)

* * *

I jerk awake around five AM the next morning, muscles still tense from a nightmare I can't remember. After years of dealing with this, I just feel a dull, familiar irritation rising up in me as I lay flat on my back, staring at the smooth train ceiling. I stopped getting upset by nightmares (or the fact that I have them) a long time ago. Maybe if I had anything to lose I'd care, but the fact is that I don't have much at all. The only thing I have left is Mags, and I know she's safe. I know because I'm doing everything I can to make sure of that.

I order a mug of "sleepy tea" as Mags calls it and try to sit in the armchair in my room. I let the steam from the tea waft out over my face and take deep breaths, but for some reason I can't get rid of the anxiety in my body, or the shaking of my hands. And I'm annoyed with myself for it, but it's moments like this when I wish I had an escape. I try not to think like that, because it's selfish and weak, but I think the truest form of imprisonment is the man who wants to die but doesn't even have the freedom to take his own life. If you can't take your own life, it isn't your life. It belongs to the person keeping it safe and sound. My life belongs exclusively to President Snow and I can't do anything about it.

Maybe (and it's my least favorite part of myself that likes to whisper this) it would be different if there was someone who cared about me. Mags cares about me, but she can't take care of me. Not really. Or perhaps it's just that I won't let her. She's strong enough to without a doubt, despite her age, despite all she's been through. But I can't get myself to talk to her about nights like these, or how I want to die, or how miserable I am. I think the problem is that I can't talk about it. I think the problem is that, deep down, I want someone that just knows all of that without me having to say it. Someone who knows it and accepts it, who wouldn't feel like it was their fault, who would be able to help me by just being there.

But no one can care about me, no one does, and there's nothing I can do about it. I can't do anything about anything. I never will be able to. The funniest thing about my life is that I'm getting all this fame from being the only one to survive the arena, but I didn't really survive it. I died there and there's no undoing that. I died there and no one notices, no one can tell. They all buy the makeup caked over my decaying skin and the spring in my step. No one suspects that, underneath all the Capitol cologne and body cream, I'm rotting.

I don't remember rising to my feet, but I'm pacing nervously around the room, my hands so tight around the mug that my knuckles are turning white. I walk back and forth over and over, my heart pounding and an emptiness filling me, and it's then that I decide that if I don't get some of this misery out of me somehow I'm just going to start screaming. This is a bad night. This is a terrible night. I keep thinking that as I talk to the corridors, pacing up and down them and throughout the train like a security guard, but it doesn't help anything. It just makes me feel worse.

When my frantic course leads me to the area with the tribute's rooms, I stop in the middle of the hallway and listen. I can hear the echoing of my heartbeat in my head and the slosh of the liquid in the mug as I shake, but I don't hear much else. I forget my self-pitying thoughts for a moment as I wonder what Annie Cresta is doing. It's five in the morning, she's probably sound asleep. I picture her tangled up in the white silk sheets of the train beds, her hair wild and spread around her, her closed eyelids reflecting the moonlight that isn't there, her lips parted slightly and that rose color on her cheeks, and then I realize I'm not standing with my shoulders tensed, and my hands have stopped shaking so much. It's such a peaceful mental image, maybe because the innocence she carries with her is almost like a glow in this sight. It's calming to think about her. This is what I need to be focusing on. I can't do anything about my life situations. But I can help her change hers. That's what my job is anyway, right? I haven't done a good job before, but maybe if I gave it my all this time I could. Doesn't she deserve that much at least?

I make it back to my room, shame over my weakness already following close behind me. I know it will have latched on by morning. I lie back down and wonder, carefully and cautiously with no real conviction, what my nightmare had been about.

* * *

I'm in the dining hall for breakfast, a cup of coffee in front of me as well as a grumpy Annora, when I realize how stupid all of this is.

Since when do I see the Games as an escape from my life? Since when do I go to sleep thinking that I need to focus only on them? Since when do I let myself care about the fucking outcome, or any person who goes in, or any person who doesn't come out? Not before my Games. Not during it. And certainly not after.

I know this new attitude of mine is stupid, because a memory of last year's Games came back to me right when I woke up this morning. Mags got very attached to the girl tribute that year, Sophie. She was only fourteen. She volunteered hoping to be just like me, and for that reason I couldn't stand her. But Mags adored her. She got really caught up in the belief that Sophie was coming out of the arena just like I did. She believed it deep down. And so it was especially devastating for her, even after all these years and all these deaths, to see her murdered pretty quickly into the Games. Mags won't talk about her still. She stopped talking completely for a week after it happened. It takes a lot to make Mags shut down like that. It takes a hard blow to slow her down. I know that that same blow probably would have devastated me much worse, because Mags is a lot stronger than me when it comes to this kind of stuff.

And so I can't let myself care. I can't even let myself wonder why I do. It's ridiculous to let some little girl challenge my self-preservation. Her fate has already been decided for her. There would be no good in me getting attached. I already like her, already think that I would like to know her and be her friend, and that's a big problem. It's a big issue, especially since I only just met her. I'm doing stupid things like bringing her food and comforting her, and that's not who Finnick Odair is. Or maybe it's who I used to be. But I can't be who I used to be, because that boy wouldn't make it one day in my life. Terrible times call for terrible things. In this case, that terrible thing is indifference in someone who is supposed to be your greatest ally.

I repeat to myself that it has to stop over and over, but when she walks in, I don't really remember why I was so upset before. No, I'm supposed to care. I'm supposed to want to make myself better, to be a better person. Caring makes you a better person. A stupider person, but better. And how can I not care? She smiles at us when she walks in, even though she's about to head off to her death. I just think that's so lovely suddenly.

I forget the conversation I was suffering through with Annora and pat the chair beside me. Annie smiles and walks over, sliding into the chair without question.

"Good morning, Annie," I greet.

That smile is still in place. I wonder for a moment if she's all there. I don't understand how she's so composed, so at ease. Either she's falling apart in private, mentally unsound, or a hell of a lot stronger than most people are. Which one is it, then?

She turns to examine the dining hall and I pour a new mug of coffee. No matter how many mysteries there may be surrounding this girl, I do know one thing: she's never had coffee. I pop a sugar cube into my mouth and suck on it for a moment, contemplating how many sugars to put in her cup. The cube dissolves into powder and I decide five. Why not decide it based on the way she talks, and she definitely talks sweetly.

I push the cup in front of her, drawing her attention back to the table. She wraps her hands around it and leans over the cup, looking into it. She stares at it in wonder and I can't help but laugh and, to my surprise, Annora joins me. It takes her a few moments to register our laughter, and then she looks up sheepishly. I notice that her eyes look greener today. Light purple is a good color for her.

"It's coffee." I tell her. "They don't drink it in District 4. It's made with…" I pause, suddenly realizing that I don't actually know what it's made of at all. I turn to Annora, who has little facts like this stored away in her designer bags. "What is it made out of?" I look down at my cup, certain that someone's told me this before, but I can't remember.

"Coffee is made from coffee beans which grow on coffee trees." Annora answers quickly, like she's been waiting all day to share this fact. Coffee beans from coffee trees. Of course. Dammit.

"Hmm, I was expecting something a bit more complicated, if it stumped Finnick Odair." Annie speaks up.

I look at her almost in surprise, fighting against the grin that keeps trying to rise to my face. I think I like this side of this girl best.

"It's not my fault I have so much grand knowledge inside of my brain that there's no room for trivial stuff such as the basic forms of coffee." I declare loftily. I take a sip of my coffee to keep from laughing more. When I peek at her from the corner of my eye, I see she's lifted her mug to do the same. She parts her lips a little bit and brings the mug to it, taking a small sip. She lowers it and stares hard at it for a second, and then she brings it back to her lips and takes a huge sip. I want to laugh again. I wish I remembered what it felt like the first time I tried coffee, or the first time I tried something new at all, but seeing her experience it is almost as good.

"It's good, right? Only don't drink it plain. I went ahead and doctored yours up for you. I figured you were a five sugarcube kind of girl." I point at the bowl of sugarcubes and quickly add something. "But watch out for those things, they're quite addictive."

She turns her mug around, staring at the rotating liquid. I like the shape of her fingernails. They're very round.

"You're just full of advice today, Mr. Odair!"

I get an urge to stand and run or jump or something equally impulsive and spastic, so I lean my chair back instead. I balance it on the two back legs and shrug.

"Well, I do have a tribute to protect after all."

I keep trying to forget this fact.

"If a tribute holds a knife to my neck and demands how many sugarcubes I like in my coffee, I'll be sure to tell them five." She shoots back.

I let the chair fall back and grin, suddenly fighting back an urge to reach over and ruffle her hair. "That's my girl!"

Oh, fucking great. I've begun to use the word "my" when addressing her. Where the hell did that come from and why do I feel kind of sick because of it? I joke around with girls like that all the time. I call Capitol girls "my honey" all the time. It just feels worse this time, probably because she's a tribute heading off to her death, not someone I'm fooling around with. Someone who trusts me and doesn't need me to be playing games. Someone who I think I would like to be friends with if circumstances were different, and that's saying something because I don't have friends as a general rule.

My momentary panic is interrupted by one of Mags' moods. She storms into the room, blatantly pissed off.

"Mags? Everything okay?" I question carefully. She ignores my question and sits down beside me, wordlessly extending her hands. I hurriedly make her a cup of coffee and pass it to her. She takes it gratefully and seems to calm down a little once the caffeine's in her system. No doubt she's been talking to Mauve and Sebastian. No doubt they've expressed interest in pimping out yet another tribute (or preparing them to be pimped out in the future, that is). No doubt Mags is as venomously against it as she always has been, always will be, has good reason to be. They did a great job on me, after all.

I let my eyes drift shut for a second and fight against the sudden wave of pointless panic that slams into me. Sometimes it isn't enough to be numb. Sometimes it isn't enough to be strong. Sometimes it isn't enough to be anything. It's funny, isn't it? All the people who play a role in a murder.

I'm glancing at Annie out of the corner of my eye, watching her rise to make a plate, when I suddenly feel myself getting as angry as Mags must have been. She's young, but there's something in her walk, in the slight sway of her hips, in the strength of her muscles. Something that Sebastian and Mauve are trained to sniff out and latch onto to, clenching it between their locked jaws until she's completely bled out. And I can't help but hope she dies. This is reality and nothing matters except the fact that there is no life after this. Even if you come out of the arena. There is nothing at all. She must have a hidden strength inside of her, but not one strong enough to deal with bed after bed after bed. Which is my nice way of phrasing what I don't like to face, which is: fuck after fuck after fuck.

I'm thinking about those fucks, about who I'm going to have to fuck tonight, and what they're going to make me do, but then I'm forgetting that because a loud and demanding voice is entering the cabin and saying things that startle me for a moment.

"I want to talk to Annie."

And really it's only because I've been thinking about what would happen if she won, if she were knotted up in a Capitol judge's sheet with his bites on her neck, that this makes me panic for a moment. I have a strange moment where I'm remembering being at the Capitol for my "16th birthday party" and the way Snow set a hand on my shoulder and said: _'I wish to talk to Finnick for a moment". _

But this isn't the same because Chiron isn't Snow and Annie isn't me. She's a tribute who probably won't make it out anyway.

"So speak to her." I tell him, and I hope no one else can sense how tense I feel now. "Glad you found your voice, by the way." I add sarcastically. What a jerk.

He begins to move towards her very rapidly, and the Finnick I left behind in my Games is the Finnick I am once again, because I rise immediately, my muscles tense and a strange need to protect welling up inside of me.

"Finnick, it's fine." Mags whispers softly to me, her hand on my hand, and then I exhale through my nose. Of course it's fine. Of course it is. And yet I don't sit, and I don't know why that is.

"Can we talk? In there?" Chiron asks Annie, nodding his head towards the door leading to the hallway. Annie has her body angled slightly away from his, her hands clenched along the hem of her silk shirt, and I have an urge to tell her we don't have time for her to talk to him.

When she turns back to glance at me, as if looking for my assurance, I'm momentarily shocked by the way that makes me feel. Good, I think. Like I'm warm inside. I don't always have to be the killer. Maybe I could be a protector just this one time.

But Mags is a traitor, and wrapped around Chiron's finger, and so I see her give Annie a reassuring nod from the corner of my eye. And then Annie turns around and smiles at Chiron, her shoulders relaxing, and when they walk off together I have a desire to run after her.

I turn to Mags with my eyes narrowed and she's already rolling her eyes.

"Boy, I don't know what's gotten in to you, but I've never seen you like this." She acknowledges. She says it like she couldn't be happier. I ignore her.

"Why'd you tell her to go? He seems angry! What if he—

"Tries to hurt her? Tries to kill her? It's not like she's ever going to have to face something like that, is it?" Mags asks coyly. She raises an eyebrow.

I falter. "Well, okay, but we're still on the train. I just feel like—

"Like you need to protect her." Mags finishes.

"Let me finish talking!" I say, my irritation almost crossing the line into anger. "I just feel like…" and then I trail off, because I can't remember what I was going to say before Mags said it for me. Now the only thing I can think of are the words she said and how (deep down) I know they're true.

"It's because she's so young." I defend myself.

"We've had younger."

"She's nicer than them, though." I attempt.

"Eh, that's debatable."

I give her the answer that we both know means nothing, but I am expected to say. "She's prettier, then. God, Mags, what do you want from me?"

"That's debatable, too. I want you to be happy. That's what I want."

I glare at her because I don't know what that has to do with anything, and then Annie and Chiron walk back in, looking completely relaxed and happy. And it's odd, because I assumed that would make me feel better, but it only makes me even more irritated. I'm already ready for this year to be over with.

Annora rambles on, seeing our awkward silences as her opportunity to steal the stage, and I don't think anyone listens to her but Annie, who nods and smiles at just the right times. All I can think is that the Capitol is going to eat this girl up and spit her out. We won't even recognize her when they're finished with her and it won't satisfy their cravings at all. The thought makes my chest ache.

When Annora mentions prep and the scented, bubbly water the prep team is going to bathe the tributes in, I see Annie shrink back into her chair just a little bit, her hands nervously fiddling with the napkin on her lap. And this makes the ache grow and shrink all at once, and I hadn't known that could happen. Shrink because, oh, it is such a breath of fresh air to see someone embarrassed by the idea of someone seeing them naked. It is such a novelty to me. And grow because that won't be true in a very short period of time. Not once the Capitol makes her theirs.

It is my duty to make her feel better. I've never felt like that before, but I am sure now that I have mentoring all wrong, because the instincts are finally coming to me.

"Don't worry about the prep. It's not the most comfortable thing, but it doesn't hurt. The Capitol and District 4 have very different ideas of fashion and aesthetics, but you will look wonderful." I tell her, and even though I keep my eyes locked on her green ones, I can sense the frustrated look Mags must be throwing my way.

Neither of us break the eye contact until Annora speaks up again, and then I feel free to look away. It isn't until I've been sitting quietly for a few seconds, ignoring Annora, that I realize my heart is beating a little quicker than normal, and then the only thing I want is to run from the dining cart screaming my head off.

I barely register Annora making fun of the traditional wedding dance of District 4, and then I hear my laughter mingle with Annie's.

"Oh, you probably saw the celebratory dance the wedding party does at weddings. I hate it." I explain to Annora. It's all spinning and colors and I hate it (hate it because I will never have anything like it in my entire life. I will never dance with someone I love who loves me back. I will never be free to love who I want, to touch who I want, to—

Annie rises to her feet, an out of place smile on her face. It's almost mischievous. I catch on almost immediately, and I'm grinning, my panicked thoughts sliding away.

"No, Annie! Don't do it!" I cry dramatically, "It's awful!" but deep down my heart is saying: _do it because you still can. Do it because you never will be able to ever again. _My heart aches again.

She smiles almost innocently, her eyes twinkling suspiciously.

"You mean…this dance?" She asks innocently, and I bite back a smile as I think to myself that we need to give this particular tribute caffeine more often.

"Annie Cresta!" I warn, but she is suddenly a swirling mass of lavender and brown and tan and pink, and I can't help but rise because maybe if she can do it this one last time, I can do it with her, and maybe it can be my last and only time too and maybe this is really us dancing on our graves together. She doesn't know that, though, but she deserves a last dance before they rip her apart, melt her skin, remove her bones. All the things the Capitol does to those who either win or lose.

My sad thoughts break down like water pounding against sandcastles and it's easy then. Annie's giggling and carefree like a child and Mags is laughing and I am too. It is all infectious and in that moment I can't remember exactly what there is to be sad about. Nothing, really. Nothing at all.

Annie slows a few seconds later and stoops over, gripping her stomach as she laughs. I fall down in a heap beside her, my head rocking around and around, and when I open my eyes all I can see her is her spinning still: her hair flying, the fabric of her shirt rising each time she turns, reveling the smooth skin of her stomach, her smile—

She falls down beside me and presses her face against her legs as she tries to catch her breath.

"I thought you hated that dance?" She asks me through her gasps.

"I do." I tell her, but I'm doubting it a moment later. "It's still fun, though! Especially with such a pretty lady."

I am used to handing out compliments like they mean nothing at all, but this one comes naturally to me. Maybe because I still do find her pretty, I still think she looks glorious with her hair knotted and the skin of her lower back barely peeking out from underneath her shirt.

"You're such a flirt," She says.

I smile and give her words that will make me sad later tonight, because they are all too true and all too raw.

"That's why all the ladies love me."

When Mags calls us crazy, I'm distracted because maybe that's what I have been all along.

* * *

Samuel Golding wants to know what I think about my tributes this year.

He sucks on my earlobe and tugs on my hair and waits for my answer. I stare at the ceiling and feel my mask slipping, my carefully constructed persona cracking, because I don't know if I can talk about this at all.

He bites down on my collarbone and I am so numb to the pain by now that I don't even have to bite down on my lip. I hold him closer and pretend it is what I want. Like all of this is what I planned, like this is the way I desperately wanted my life to turn out. Like this night with him is an accumulation of all my dreams coming true. It is for him. There is nothing sadder to me.

But he's the top sponsor these days, so I find the words somewhere inside of me.

"They're great. The male is young, though." I say. I stop talking because his hand is moving past the waistband of my pants and I feel dirtier than ever when I think about mentioning Annie while he's grabbing me.

He is oblivious to this. He makes a sound of interest in the back of his throat and squeezes me. He waits for a gasp of pleasure that I give only so I don't give a gasp of pain. There are two types of clients. Those who want to be pleasured and those who want to give the pleasuring. And no one would believe me, but the worst types are those who want to pleasure me, because it all hurts. It all hurts and it hurts even more to pretend like it doesn't, to fight back tears and screams and give them moans and smiles. I am better at pleasuring because I have it down to an art. This is just one long session of torture that I have to pretend is nirvana. There is nothing more difficult than having to somehow push back your pain and humiliation in order to come just so you can be sent home (where the water is never clean enough and the soap never soapy enough and the sponges never rough enough).

"Good, good," He says, his voice gravelly. When I open my eyes, his eyelids are lowered and his eyes are trained on his hand and he looks more pleased than ever. I don't like the sight of any part of me in his hands. I close my eyes again. "And the girl tribute?"

I want to push his hands away but he only moves his hand quicker and I don't think I can do it tonight. I don't think I can distance myself far away from this to make myself pretend to physically enjoy it.

"She's…" and then I trail off, uncertain of what to say. I have to bite down on my lip to keep the images of her from my mind because I will not think of her here. I will not let her become a coping mechanism, a beautiful thing to help me give this man what he wants from me. Somehow that would feel like stealing from her and I have seen enough things stolen already.

"Let's keep work and play separate, okay?" I finally force out, my voice lowered to the pitch I know works for just about everyone.

He grins against my neck and bites down again and squeezes me so hard I can't help but jerk a bit.

"If that's what you want," he murmurs.

I want to push him away and grab the golden clock on the bedside table and show him exactly what I want. I think about bashing his brains in, watching the blood and brain matter soak into the carpet, running and running and running until I'm back in District 4 where I am free to dive into the ocean and scrub at my skin with the sand on the bottom of the sea, and then I'm gasping something, my mind finally far enough above myself that I can find the strength to surrender myself enough to satisfy him.

"You know what I want?" I breathe.

"Hmm?" He asks, and later he is going to want more, he is going to grab my hair and push me over the table and bite at the back of my neck and fuck me until I can't even stand the thought of walking, but I'll worry about that later.

"A secret," I tell him. And it isn't until he's whispering safely guarded words that mean more to me than currency that I'm letting myself give in.

* * *

I'm burdened with bruises and heavy secrets on the ride home.

I remember not to cry. Because there gets to be a point where you just can't anymore. Because it's worthless.

Mags didn't wait up for me for once, which I'm glad for. She used to, and back when I would let myself cry—when I was more of a boy—I was glad that she did. But it isn't what I want anymore. I can't stand the idea of someone seeing me any more vulnerable than those strange men and women have all night.

The apartment is quiet. It feels more like a prison than a home because it's only a holding area for me until someone's bed has been warmed up.

I can't find it in myself to think of anything except how much I want—no, need—to shower, even though my stomach is growling audibly and it would probably be in my best interest to eat something first.

I am three steps from my room when I stop in my tracks, uneasy for reasons unknown to me, reasons that I know are somehow separate from the misery I've just endured. I stand there and rub the back of my neck, my hair sweaty and my body aching, and it's then I feel like crying. I almost let myself, and I think if I had someone to cry to who would somehow understand, I would have. But I don't. I never will. And so I head into the bathroom and scrub at my skin for an hour, ignoring the feeling that there was something I should have been doing, some mistake I made.

I take two white pills hidden away inside a drawer once I'm out, and sleep comes easily to me. But not before I realize that I feel so guilty because I had the perfect opportunity to guarantee a sponsor for Annie tonight, and I let it slip through my fingers. I press the heels of my hands into my burning eyes and curl up on my side and think to myself that maybe I don't want her to win, deep down. Maybe I care too much about her to hope she does. Look at what would be left for her. Look at what is left for me.

* * *

I fuck my next client like it's what I really want.

I fuck her until I know she can't take anymore, and then I walk from the room, ignoring her blissful and pleased goodbyes as they follow after me. I don't even ask her for a secret. All I want is to be free from her and everyone else.

I can't shake her pleased face, flushed and glassy eyed, from my mind. Not until I'm with the next client. She asks me about my tributes too, halfway through a glass of gin. She likes to small talk before sex. I don't mind it sometimes, but I'm feeling raw and devastated, and being Finnick Odair is harder than it's ever been.

"The girl is Annie. The boy is Chiron. Chiron's young, Annie's charming." I say shortly. I take her up on her previous offer for a drink then. I feel like I'm being stretched too far and I'm going to rip any moment.

She mulls over this, her long green nails tapping thoughtfully against the crystal cup. I stare at the way the lights shine off the polished surface of her nails and dread the moment they're sinking into me.

"Young and charming," she repeats slowly. "I'm not so sure that sounds promising."

I slide closer to her and wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against me. This makes her eyes darken and her puffy lips pull back into a large grin.

"What was I when I was a tribute?" I ask her quietly. She makes a sound not unlike a cat's purr and runs her hands down my back.

"Young and charming," she whispers, catching on quickly.

I lean in and kiss her, drawing her tongue into my mouth and giving it a hard suck. She quivers.

"And how do you think I turned out?" I ask, once I've pulled away.

She's breathless. She stares at me, eyes wide in wonder. She reaches up and touches my cheekbone.

"Marvelous." She says.

I press my face against her neck for a moment and try not to hate myself, try not to break.

"And with the right sponsorship, one of them will be marvelous as well." I say.

And I want to die when I realize she believes me.

I'm inside of her and her nails are digging into my skin and pulling down my neck when she whispers something.

"The world needs more people like you." She moans.

I feel beads of blood slide down my skin and can't help but think: _no, the world needs less people like you._

* * *

I only have an hour before the Opening Ceremonies when I make it back to the Training Center.

Annie and Chiron are in prep. Mags touches the back of my hand when I walk into the apartment.

"Why are you going away so often now? You have plenty of time during the Games. Spread it out a little." She says, concern weaving in her tone.

I can't answer her because I can't even admit the reason to myself. I'm scared that I no longer have control over myself. I'm scared that I've let this girl waltz in and change everything and there's no reason she should have, could have. She's a girl marked for death and I need to stop thinking any differently. I feel as if I've been turned inside out.

Mags eyes don't leave my face even though I won't meet hers.

"You don't want to leave her alone during the Games." She realizes, her voice colored with surprise.

She opens her mouth to say more, but immediately stops, and I realize it's because I'm crying.

"Finn—" She starts, but I push her soft hands away. This is the end for me. I don't know what that means and I don't know why, but I can't help feeling like the world is crashing down.

I retreat to my sleeping quarters until time to head down to the chariots. I stand under water so hot it makes my eyes water so I'm not really certain anymore whether I'm crying or not. And then I stand in front of the mirror and make an agreement with myself. If my natural instinct is to care about this girl, for whatever fucking reason, I'm going to let myself do it. I'm going to give into it because it is too confusing to be worried about it all of the time. I don't have the extra strength for that. She is going to die and so she won't ever have to be hurt by knowing me. I can't hurt her. She is already destined for pain. Maybe I can even alleviate some of it.

I try not to look at her more than anyone else at the Opening Ceremonies. Mags nudges me and makes a comment about how good of a job Mauve did on her, but I can only be glad that she's not completely naked, and only appreciate the lines of her body from a mentor's perspective. She looks beautiful and powerful like the sea itself.

When the chariots come to a stop, I begin to make my way over to it. I stop in my tracks momentarily when one of the tributes from District 2 swerves toward 4's chariot and purposely knocks into Annie's side as she's trying to climb down, sending her falling to the ground. She lands hard on her knees and hands, and I can tell the breath is knocked from her for a moment, and then I'm pushing through people angrily without even thinking. I only retain enough sense to help Mags through the crowd. Annie is helped up and rolls her eyes at me from across the yard, but it isn't something I can just shake off. I deliver Mags safely at our chariot, and then I turn around and march over to District 2.

I'm stirring with volatile anger when I find Brutus, standing off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his lips.

"Control your fucking tribute, Brutus!" I scream. My face is hot and my heart is pounding in my chest.

He merely scowls at me.

"It was an accident. It obviously doesn't take much to knock that wisp of a tribute down. You're going to be done with these Games really quickly, Odair. Congratulations." He replies. He pauses just long enough for his smirk to widen. "Why do you care, anyway? Are you fucking her?"

I lift an arm to punch him, but then I regain enough sense to take a deep breath. I lower my voice instead.

"You know, it's a mark of a really pathetic tribute when they have to attack the competition before the Games have even begun. But I don't know what else I'd expect from District 2. I seem to remember you slitting your own district partner's throat during the night." I mutter.

His eyes narrow.

"Watch it." He warns me, bristling. I take a step towards him and try not to feel smug when he subconsciously moves back a little. I push a finger into his chest.

"No, you watch it. If I see your tributes lay another hand on one of mine before these Games, I'm going to rip yours off and shove it down your fucking throat. Back off. Got it?"

I don't wait to see his reaction. I march back over to Mags and the tributes and help her through the crowd once again, feeling oddly like I am floating somewhere above my body.

* * *

I don't cool down until dinner time, which might be a new record for me. I'm not used to feeling so much and I don't know how to handle it.

I find the strength to turn and look at Annie. She meets my eyes and then her gaze slides down to the long scratches on my neck, and I feel dirty once again. _This isn't me, _I want to tell her, _this isn't want I wanted. This isn't who I wanted to be at this age, this isn't anything like what I hoped I would turn out to look like. _When her eyes meet mine again with concern welling in them, I worry for a stupid moment that I really did say those words out loud.

"District 2 is full of snakes." I say abruptly, searching for something to get her attention away from those marks.

She shrugs. "It's no big deal." But she balls her hand up—most likely the one that she fell on—where I can't see it and hides it in her lap.

I'm about to ask her if she's okay when she beats me to it.

"Are _you_ okay?" She asks.

"I'm Finnick Odair. I'm more than okay." I say. To keep myself from crying. To keep myself from holding onto her long hair and saying_: help me, help me, help me. I don't think I can do it anymore. Help me._

Because I am not allowed to say that. Because it isn't her place to help me. Because I can't do anything but endure it all for the sake of Mags. All I can get in return are a few hundred secrets that may or may not ever do any more good than satisfying my need for revenge.

She laughs a bit. "Of course."

Of course.

I can't say much for the rest of dinner, and then Mags has cleared the room out so Annie and I are alone. I make a mental note to complain to her later for meddling.

When everyone is from the room and Annie speaks up, the words are the opposite from what I was expecting.

"Finnick, what do you think happens when someone dies?" She asks.

I gape for a moment and then regain composure. I give her a soft smile.

"Got death on the brain today, Cresta?" I ask.

She traces lines onto the table and avoids my eyes. I get an urge to reach over and set my hand on her skin.

"I've been in that sort of company," she says softly. I glance down at her injured hand.

"What do you think happens?" I ask her, because I don't really know what I think. Not really. I just know it's got to be better than the hell that I'm living.

I watch her as her eyes travel around the room. She looks thoughtful.

"I'm not sure. My brother thinks people haunt the shores as ghosts. I hope we just stop, but maybe our energy does linger around in a way."

This is one of the last things I would have expected to have come from her lips. She struck me as someone who would have hoped for some sort of idealistic afterlife with flowers and flowing dresses and crystal clear waters.

I question this and meet her eyes. She stares back at me for a long moment, and her eyes are as crisp as a green apple. And somehow just as refreshing.

She glances down at her lap as she answers me. "I think that those who suffer in life should be able to know that there's an end somewhere. That even though they have had so much pain, they can look forward to it all ending. Like a long, perfect sleep where you are never plagued with nightmares or have to be woken up. And then you eventually turn into flowers."

I never knew this was what I hoped for until she said it. Something about her voice and the cadence of it made me certain that this is the best possible outcome, the only good way for life to ever end. I am struck with a yearning to talk to her about everything, to hear more of these odd confessions and thoughts, to understand myself and the world more by understanding her. I haven't had a friend in a very long time. I haven't had anything in a very long time.

"I think that is one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard about death." I tell her, and I smile when she blushes. I'm thinking about every body I've pierced with my trident and every body I've entered as I say my next words. "I have always hoped for that too. I mean, I can't think of a world where Heaven and Hell could exist, because how would you judge who is good and who is evil? What criteria would realistically work? Almost everyone is such a mixture of both."

"No one deserves to be burned for eternity anyway." She says.

I look up at her, suddenly doubting her for the first time since the conversation began.

"Not even Snow?" I ask.

"Not even Snow." She affirms, after a brief pause.

I think that if she knew what he did, if she shadowed me for even half a day, she would change her mind. But also know that I don't want her to. I like Annie Cresta, I like her odd thoughts and soft voice and understanding gaze. I like the fact that she doesn't see enough bad in anyone to wish them an eternity in hell, even if I can't quite agree. And because of all this, I find myself reaching up and gathering her hair in my hands. I move it behind her shoulders, my throat suddenly narrow and my heart swollen.

I repeat to myself over and over again that she's my friend and that's okay as I say my next words.

"I like the way your mind works, Annie. It's special." It's unique and genuine and innocent and everything the Capitol's isn't. Everything mine isn't.

"Like yours." She blurts out, in direct contrast to what had been flowing through my mind.

The thought of that being true makes me smile. And maybe she's right just a little, because we seem to be on the same page more than I would have thought possible. She senses more about me intuitively than the people I sleep with ever have.

"Like mine." I agree hesitantly. "But nicer." I add.

"That's what Mags meant when she said we are the same." She adds.

I'm not the least bit shocked that Mags has talked to her about this. She is the meddler of all meddlers.

"Yes, I think so too." I am resigned to whatever is happening between us and it feels more freeing than anything has in a long time.

A peaceful silence falls over us. I can't help but think about how hard it is going to be for her to murder anyone in the arena, this girl who doesn't even think the man who is sentencing her to a painful death deserves to burn. The words come to me easily then and I am eager to give them to her.

"I think I can answer your question now." I tell her.

She nods, her eyes curious. "Okay."

"When someone in that arena dies, they are finally at peace. And they bring you one step closer to coming back home."

_And one step closer to dying slowly in a new way. _But I don't add that. I suddenly can't stand the thought of breaking her heart or her hope. The relief that shines in her eyes at those words makes me even more certain I never could.

* * *

After we watch the Opening Ceremonies, I let myself confide in Mags.

She pushes my hair back from my forehead and fusses about how long it's getting and I ask her a question.

"Do you think it's okay to be friends with Annie?"

She isn't surprised by the question. She continues pulling her fingers through my hair, her motherly concern almost palpable in the air.

"I think it's more than okay. The only thing that I don't think is okay is to deny yourself getting to know this girl when you obviously want to."

I guess she has a point there. But there is still that part of me that believes I don't deserve anything good at all. I let my eyes drift shut and find the strength to express what I'm afraid of.

"What if I ruin her? What if she ruins me?"

She laughs and it's almost cold. As cold as Mags can get, anyway.

"Finn. You're both already ruined. There is no way to go but up."

Somehow, I don't think that's true. But it feels good to believe it in the moment.

* * *

Silk Manson has a fetish for blood.

I spend most of the morning getting mended by my prep team.

They rub healing ointment onto my open wounds and I close my eyes and try to fight the flashbacks I can feel hovering near me. Some things are too depraved to even think about ever again. Some things are so upsetting you can only revisit them in your nightmares, where you have to relive the horror of someone cutting into you and demanding that you enjoy it, that you scream for it, that you come for it. I think sex is one of the most terrible things in the entire world. And the disgusting ways people convolute it only make it worse. It's all about power and pain and money and politics.

"You should be more careful with your body." Andrius tells me.

But he has metal-ink tattoos all over his skin so he really has no room to talk.

I don't make it back to the apartment until four AM. I sleep restlessly, waking every hour or so in a cold sweat, convinced that Silk Manson and her razor-tipped nails has scheduled me again for the morning. She hasn't, though.

I'm half asleep when I hear Annora scream for me, her voice panicked. I jerk awake immediately, the sheets tangled around me, and glance at the clock with bleary eyes. It's a little after seven AM, and when she yells for me again, I can tell she's near Annie's room.

I yank clothes on and hurry down the hallway, stopping in front of Annie's open door. When I peek in, she's a huddled mound under the blankets, and Annora looks stricken. For a moment, I feel sick and I think to myself that she's killed herself. I don't know how she could have, but there is a part of me that believes she is capable of so much more than she seems, than she thinks, than anyone else thinks. But then I see her shoulders shaking and I find the strength to move forward a little. Annora walks over to me.

"The girl is in hysterics. Are you sure she's all there?" She asks.

Because in Annora's eyes, this is a privilege. In her eyes, you'd have to be mentally unstable to be scared about the fact that you're going into the Games. I scowl at her and make my way over to the shaking shape of Annie. For once, I don't even stop to worry about what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it. I just know I have to do something, because she's gasping, and if she feels okay maybe I can forget that I feel bad. Maybe I can just be her mentor and not have to be a whore.

I sit on the edge of the bed and set a hand on Annie's shoulder. Her bones feel fragile underneath my fingertips and I just want to hug her suddenly. I want to make it better for her, but I can't do that. I can't take away what's causing her pain.

"Annora, it would be best if you left." I tell her.

She leaves the room quickly, shutting the door behind her. I grab the silk blanket and pull it free from Annie slowly as not to startle her. Without the coverage of the blanket, she looks terrified. Her eyes are wide and welling with tears and her face is blotchy. Her hair is flowing down her back and her nightgown is gathered at her waist, leaving her legs bare and the white fabric of her underwear visible, but I don't think she notices and I tell myself it isn't right for me to notice, either.

I wrap my hands gently around her upper arms and stare into her eyes until she is looking back at me.

"Annie, look at me. Breathe with me." I inhale deeply and then exhale after a few moments. I complete this cycle five times before she's calm enough to mimic me, and then we breathe together at the same pace for a few moments, our eyes still locked. I can feel her chest rising and falling in time with mine with my hands on her arms, and I can almost see the panic start to ebb in her eyes. I feel something stirring inside of me and I realize that, as fucked up as it is, this is the closest I've ever felt to someone. I've been inside what must be hundreds of people but breathing with her feels like the closest have ever gotten to close. I can't help but like her more for that, can't help but feel like we're closer together because of it.

When she starts to cry, I rub her arms and wait for her words.

"I can't do it, Finnick," she whispers, her voice strangled.

I want to cry, too, because I can't do it either. Any of it.

Except this. I can help her, I think. I pull the blanket from her clenched hands and ask her what she means.

"I can't kill anyone, I can't do it!" She says, and then she's crying harder.

I frown and realize I have no idea what to say to that. I have no idea what to say to explain to her that this arena is going to destroy her, is going to change everything she knew about herself, and she won't be better or happier afterwards. And so I decide to give her the only thing that makes me feel even a little bit better.

I slide off the bed and take her soft hands in mine.

"Come with me. Let's talk." I say.

And when she follows after me, her hand still in mine, I don't feel like crying anymore. I don't think about Silk at all. I just think about the fact that I am going to give her something good. It feels good to know that, despite how much pain I am given, I can still do good. Despite all the pain I have given, I can still help.

We sit together on the bench on the roof. The sun is only just beginning to rise, and I can feel myself thawing. I reach over and wipe the tears off Annie's face, because I want her to see this with clear vision and a clear heart.

I watch her as she opens her eyes and stares at the sky. The orange of the sky casts long shadows on her face. She watches silently, her tears slowing and her breathing evening out, and then she just looks so peaceful that I feel at peace, too. I watch her chest rise and fall and her face dry, and then I give her the only comforting words I have. I glance back at the sunrise.

"I've been to every district, but no matter where I am, the sunrise always looks the same. Even in the arena."

I look back at her, then. She's got her eyes on me and I have never seen someone look trustingly at me. Only hungrily, greedily, murderously.

"It's not a bad thing, you know. That you feel like you can't kill anyone. I'm haunted by those people I killed."

Haunted by them because they are what led me here. Haunted by them because, by killing them, I led myself into this trap. I forced this misery on myself.

"You remember yesterday when we talked about what happens when we die and I said I couldn't imagine heaven or hell because people are both evil and goodness?" I ask. She nods, her eyes wide and curious and painfully innocent.

"Well, you're just goodness, Annie. And it's never something to be ashamed of."

Then I have to look away from her, because my heart is aching more than it has in a while. Because this is the truth that is painful to acknowledge. Finally I have found someone the Capitol hasn't tainted, someone who hasn't been brainwashed to see me as an object, someone who could know me, who could let me know them. I have found someone who could be my friend. I have found someone who embodies the goodness that I wish I contained.

And they are going to do worse than kill her. One way or another, they are going to turn her into me.

I look back at her, because she won't be herself for much longer. Someone should look at her while she's still here. Someone should be a witness to the goodness she was, the goodness that she could have been. And it's with that thought that I know I can't let this happen. I can't let them destroy anything else. How much more do they need? How much more are they going to mutilate before someone does something about it?

"We'll figure out some sort of strategy. We'll find a way to keep you alive. There has to be a way to do that."

What I don't and can't tell her is that it isn't a matter of keeping her physically alive. It's a matter of keeping her soul untouched while she's in the arena, and then keeping her body equally unused once she's free of it. It is impossible. But so is the thought of them decaying her, of draining her, of ravaging her until there is nothing left at all but an empty and lifeless shell that used to be Annie Cresta. That is what they did to me.

When she tells me she wants to run towards the Cornucopia and die quickly that way, instead of suffering, my first instinct is to tell her to go for it. It is what would be best for her, but because I am disgustingselfishevildirtyte rrible, I tell her not to. I look into her green eyes, framed gently by dark eyelashes that brush lightly against the slightly purplish, delicate skin underneath her eyes each time she blinks, and promise her that in the arena she is going to find herself capable of doing dark things she never dreamed she could. And then I apologize and take her hand, because she doesn't know yet how bad that is. She doesn't know yet why that requires an apology.

"The arena changes everyone. But you deserve to make it out. You deserve it more than anyone else. Because you are good."

We joke and head back to her room. She manages to make me laugh, really laugh. I soothe her worries with plans that impress her. I try to seem confident in them. When she expresses concern about not having sponsors, I'm momentarily glad that I am Finnick Odair. Glad because I can help her with this body.

"You don't have to do so much for me." She tells me softly, a few moments later. Her eyes are filled with a soft-edged concern.

"I wish I could do more." I tell her, before I even think about it. And then I'm nervous and struggling to find words to explain that statement to myself more than anything else. It takes me a moment, but when I do, it all makes sense suddenly. "I feel like I've known you all my life. I'm comfortable around you in a way that I'm not comfortable around much anyone."

I think maybe this is what being naked is supposed to feel like. Her eyes don't leave mine. I like the little line that forms between her eyebrows when she gets confused. Then she smiles, and it is brighter than smiles usually are. Or maybe it's just that I don't see that many real smiles anymore.

"I know exactly what you mean." She says. She pauses. "Do you think we could be friends, Finnick?"

And then I'm smiling for the first time in a long time, too.

"Oh, Annie, I thought we already were."

Her smile widens.

"I think you're right." She says.

"Of course I'm right! I'm-

"Finnick Odair!" She echoes with me.

I stare at her for a moment, amused. I reach out and run my finger down the arch of her foot without even realizing. Her leg jerks a bit, and I feel my skin warm, and I think that this is one person I wouldn't mind touching. I wouldn't mind seeing the way she falls apart under my hands. But that is a bad thought, a dirty thought, and so I push it far away. Instead I focus on the forcibly nonchalant way she pulls her foot from my grasp, like she thinks I missed the fact that she's ticklish.

"Am I getting that predictable?" I ask her, picking up our previous conversation.

"It's the price of fame." she sighs dramatically.

"Unfortunately, there are a lot of prices of fame. You'll see that soon enough." I say. And then to keep the pain from my heart, I inch my foot forward towards hers. She pulls hers further away. It isn't often that people move back when I move forward. I fight back a smile. "Ticklish?"

"No," she fibs. "And fortunately, I think you're the only one who is ever going to know the joys and sorrows of fame."

If only she knew what she is saying. I shake my head anyway, to give her courage. But later that night, underneath the writhing body of Snow's most generous donor, I think about her words. And I wish they were true, I wish I could let them be true. I wish I weren't so selfish. I wish I could care about her enough to let her die. She thinks my friendship and caring is a blessing, but it is really a curse. I _should_ be the only one to know these sorrows, to know that there is no joy at all. But I want too much to keep her to myself, to lock my hands around her brightness and her joy, to keep her somewhere safe where I can sit in her warmth and understanding whenever I am cold and aching.

The man on top of me rolls me over, his erection digging into my back. He bites at the nape of my neck and then moves down and pushes into me without so much as a second thought. At this point, it is almost possible to ignore it.

I stare at the rocking shade of the lamp on the bedside table. He grunts and moves faster and faster and the lampshade rocks quicker and quicker, back and forth back and forth, and it occurs to me that it is the same blue as the sea at dusk. I close my eyes partway until I can convince myself that's what it is, and his cries are just the seagulls, and the water will soothe the deepest of pains.

He doesn't pull out of me even after he finishes. He presses his face against my neck and breathes.

"Your female tribute looked delicious in the Opening Ceremonies. What are her odds of winning, you think?"

The lampshade stops rocking. My head doesn't, though. My thighs are sticky and my lower back aches. I feel feverish.

"I don't know." I choke out.

"If she wins, I hope I'm first. I missed out on first dibs on you and I never forgave myself. I'll get a piece of District 4 after all."

Once I'm home that night, I vomit until nothing is left but my own stomach acid. I have to brush my teeth four times before the taste is gone. I don't even take a shower, because I suddenly feel that I don't even deserve the luxury of feeling clean.

And it is so funny, because the whole time I have been worried about them destroying her. Only now I realize that the person who is really doing the destroying here is me. But it isn't really my fault. They have trained me to be like this. All I have known is selfishness.

I lie awake that night, disgusting and hot underneath the covers, and realize that I have no idea what is right and what is wrong anymore, or who it is that really should be blamed.


	3. Bloodlust

**A/n: **So basically I switched my major to Spanish and the more time I spend on a foreign language, the worse my first language seems to get. That being said, I did proof read this three times, so hopefully there aren't that many mistakes. Thank you all so very much for the support. I am glad you're enjoying this. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint.

* * *

I'm drowsy and sick when I wake up the next morning.

I ignore Annora the first few times she knocks on my door, because I feel like I might vomit or cry if I so much as talk to anyone, and I'm not sure which one would be worse. My head is tossing back and forth and I can't place myself on a timeline. I can't remember yesterday or the day before or the day before that and I don't want to, so I lie curled up underneath the covers and hold my breath. I try not to feel so anxious about the fact that I can't remember anything. I try not to feel like even more has been stolen from me. But I don't get very far.

The weight of the bed shifts a little later, pulling me from the light sleep I fell into after failing to suffocate myself. I know it's Mags without a doubt by the scent of lavender. She rests a hand over my head, that's still underneath the blankets, and asks me a soft question.

"Did they make you take something?"

Her voice is muffled. I curl up into myself more and bite down on my lip. My eyes burn.

"I don't know." I tell her.

"What day is it?" She asks.

I bite down harder.

"I don't know." I repeat.

Her hand strokes over my blanketed head.

"What are our tributes' names?"

I see a flash of rocking blue and feel like I've been doused in shame, but when that passes, I'm uncertain again.

"I don't know." I choke, and then I roll over and move as far away from Mags as possible because my eyes are searing.

Mags stays on the other side of the bed.

"You'll remember, Finn. You always do. If you didn't, life would be a lot better right now." She says.

And she's right. A lot of clients force me to take drugs that leave me confused about basic things, like what I did last night or how that bruise got on my ankle or what year it is. But each time it is just as hard because I feel like I've been even more invaded, even more violated. This time they messed with my head, too. Despite it all, the memories always come back. Even if, as Mags implied, it would be better if they didn't.

She orders breakfast for me from an avox and then helps me sit up once it's brought to me. I eat a boiled egg in silence, my hands shaking, and then Mags helps trigger some memories of the previous day.

"Annie and Chiron had their first day of training, remember?" She starts.

I stare blankly at the door and then nod slowly as memories come back to me, slowly and hesitantly. I remember holding Annie's hand on the roof that morning, soothing her fears. I remember eating breakfast with her and then walking her down to training. And then I remember sleeping with two wealthy Capitol wives. My memories halt then. I turn to look at Mags.

"How did the training go, again?" I ask.

"Fine enough. Annie and the Careers had a bit of a scuffle, but it's okay now. They just think she's overemotional and crazy."

The word _crazy_ brings that snippet of conversation back to me. Annie spoke of her first day of training with a tremor in her voice, and it was obvious she felt so guilty about what she had done. But from what I remember of what happened—the Careers asked her to join and, not wanting to turn them down and make them angry as Chiron had done, but also not wanting to join them, she had pretended to be fragile—it wasn't that bad at all. I remember my burst of understanding as I came to the realization that I wanted us to work with that angle for her interviews.

"And then we decided Annie would play the role of "honest and kind" at her interviews." I add. Mags nods.

"Right. And then you went to see another client."

I see flashes of gold and red and that same vision of rocking blue. I press the heels of my palms over my eyes.

"Yeah." I mutter.

She's silent for the rest of breakfast. What else is there to say? I'm sorry you were drugged? I'm sorry you had to sleep with them? Those are wasted words.

I take a shower after she leaves. The water runs copper when I first step in, but I don't care enough to examine myself to find out why or where the dried blood was coming from. I dress and make my way to the lunch cart, even though I'm not hungry.

I sit at the window and nervously pull at my shirt. I look up when Annie enters, and she spots me and gives me a huge smile immediately. She walks right over to me and stops, the smile still on her face.

"Good morning!" She tells me.

I can't help but smile back, my previous pain ebbing away, if only for a moment.

"Afternoon." I correct, nodding my head at the bright sunlight streaming in the window. Surely she's been up for way longer than I have.

She falters for a moment, her eyebrows furrowing.

"It is, isn't it?" She asks, and before I can follow her train of thought, she's continuing. "Have you eaten lunch yet?"

I shake my head. This makes the back of my skull radiate with sharp pain for a moment. I bite back a gasp and set my hand on the back of my neck, applying pressure.

"I'm not feeling so well this morning." I explain.

Annie's voice is manner-of-fact as she replies.

"This afternoon." She corrects.

I look up at her in confusion, and for whatever reason, begin to laugh. She looks bewildered for a moment, but joins in on my laughter. I trail off a little later, my head aching again.

"Is it your head?" She asks me, after her laughter trailed off as well.

I nod mutely. I close my eyes against the sunlight and listen as she walks away, presumably to get lunch. She's an odd one, I can't help but think again.

I almost yelp when something warm is suddenly against the back of my neck. I jump up off the couch, my heart pounding and my stomach churning, and I'm surprised to find Annie standing beside it with a washcloth in her hands and a shocked expression on her face. She lifts a hand to her mouth and looks mortified.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, "I shouldn't have—I just wanted to—I thought it would help. Sorry. Sorry."

She blushes a bright red, and I'm helpless to do anything but stare at her dumbly. The realization that she was trying to put a washcloth on my neck to help my headache overcomes me. I feel warm and confused and it's hard to understand that there are still people who want to give instead of take. There are still people who have innocent intentions towards me. I hate myself for making her feel bad for being kind. I hate myself for making her feel bad for being everything those here are not.

I can't explain to her why I jumped up. I can't explain to her that I'm jumpy about personal contact because I am forced to sleep with people I don't know on a daily basis. So I laugh, a little embarrassed myself, and slowly sit back down where I was before.

"You startled me." I say instead, slowly, attempting to take back any damage I did by my reaction.

I look up at her, and her face is still red. She looks so embarrassed she might cry. She holds out her hand with the washcloth.

"It might help if you want it." She whispers.

I reach out to take it from her, and when I do, her hand brushes against mine. And then memories from last night—before my meeting with my client—overwhelm me. I remember working with her for hours, trying to help her learn how to use a knife. I remember how proud I was when she threw it correctly, but most of all, I remember how warm her skin was when I pulled her hair over her shoulders and my fingertips brushed the back of her neck. I remember the way she fell still and—most likely instinctively—leaned back into my touch. And I remember how I felt like my face was on fire when I realized that I liked the feel of her skin and I wanted to feel more of it.

The shame of that realization comes back now. I quickly take the washcloth from her hand and place it on the back of my neck.

"Thank you." I tell her. But when I look up at her, she won't meet my eyes. I want to reach up and shove her away and tell her to run from me because I will only hurt her somehow. But at the same time, I want to reach up and set my hands on her shoulders and push her sleeves off so I can feel the warm skin beneath them.

"I should go lay down." I find myself saying abruptly, my face searing and my heart racing. I feel her eyes on me as I hurry from the room, my desire to be anywhere but my bed escaping me.

I hide underneath my covers like a little boy. I hide from Annie, from myself, from the forgotten memories I can feel creeping up on me.

"_Touch me there, Finnick, ah—like that, yes—" "The President says you're free for your upcoming birthday…" "Where did you learn to do that?" "Harder! Do as I say! Do as I say!" "Do you like to hurt, Finnick? Do you like to hurt me?" "Finnick!" "Fuck her until she cries—" "Finnick!" "Have you ever done this before?" "Finnick!" "Taste the blood. Make me believe you want it." "Finnick. Finnick! FINNICK!"_

The pain mounts in my head, and before I can do anything about it, I'm throwing up all over the sheets.

I have fifteen minutes to call an Avox, bathe myself, and drink enough alcohol to get me steady again.

I don't even look at Annie and Mags as I hurry from the apartment, my next client waiting somewhere in a silk robe for me. For me. Just for me. There is nowhere to escape to, because I can't escape myself.

* * *

While my client pretties herself up in her luxurious bathroom, I break into her collection of antique liquors.

I can almost hear Haymitch warning me as I knock back two shots in the span of a minute. _Don't become me, boy,_ he warns me. But I want to be him, because he lives alone and he doesn't have to sleep with anyone.

By the time she comes out, I'm sloppy and slurred. Oddly, sadly, she doesn't mind. She tells me I'm the best she's ever had.

She's a crier. After I pull out of her, she clings to me with her ruby-encrusted fingernails and weeps. I stroke back her hair, hating myself, because even after all they have put me through, I'm helpless to comfort. Even after all I have done to comfort woman after woman after man after man, I can do nothing but stroke back her hair as she weeps. She deserves nothing. Which is exactly why she deserves me.

Once she finally quiets down, I think she's asleep. But then she's rolling over on top of me, grinding against me, and I just want her to leave me alone. I just want to be alone.

"When I was a little girl," she tells me, her hair wild and gold, her eyes bright and damp, "I used to have the same nightmare every night."

Her eyes drift shut as she gets the bodily response from me she was looking for. Her hips dance and my heart sinks.

"It was about our family dog, Vesta. In the nightmare, she would go mad. She'd sneak into our rooms at night and rip our throats out while we were sleeping." She pants, her breathing getting heavier. I grip her hips in my hands, trying to understand why a mental image that horrifying was getting her off.

"There was blood everywhere. I couldn't pet her for months. And one day, she started barking at thin air, and I—I," she falls quiet for a moment, her head tipping back and her mouth falling open. Her movements become more incessant. "I lost it and I dropped my mother's medicine into her bowl. She died three hours later, at bedtime. She was lying in a puddle of frothy pink vomit." She falls silent then, overcome with pleasure and unable to finish her story. She breaks apart above me, her chest and neck flushed bright red. I hope this isn't the only secret I am getting tonight.

"It's funny, because I was so afraid she'd turn on us, but in the end I turned on her." She breathes.

When I'm leaving that night, I catch sight of a golden paw print hanging over the door.

* * *

Annie Cresta is refreshingly normal after the day I've had.

When I reenter the apartment, she's sitting on the couch with Mags, her hair clean and casual and her face unmarked. I stop in the doorway for a moment, my thought process halting, because she's so normal she's strange. It's hard to understand girls who don't want me to bend them over the counter and fuck them every second of every day. It's hard to fathom girls who don't paint their faces green or dye their hair gold.

And because it's only the things we don't understand that can hurt us, I sit down at the foot of the couch and lean against her legs wordlessly. The warmth of a safe physical contact is needed, and maybe she senses that, because she doesn't shy away or even ask me what I'm doing.

"How is training going, Annie?" I ask her, as if there's nothing strange about this, as if I'm not crawling towards her embrace like a child crawls towards their mother during a storm.

I don't know if she can sense that I'm hurting, or if maybe Mags told her, but she begins talking all about her day without further prompting. I'm still messy from the alcohol, and aching from all the sex, so I listen to the cadence of her voice in silence. And before I mean to, I am lulled to sleep, feeling more at peace than I have in a very long time.

I dream of ferociously wounded dogs named Vesta and women with knives for fingernails and men who don't understand the word _stop. _But then I am dreaming of unfussy hair and pink lips and quietly accepting words that ease.

When I wake again, hours have passed, but Annie has placed a blanket over my legs and I find the security to stop shaking.

Later that night, I stick my head into Annie's room. I meant to only thank her for the blanket, but then I see her face in the dim light from the lamp. Horrified, stricken. I step fully into the room and close the door after me. She stares at me as I walk over to her.

"What's wrong, Annie?" I ask her, falling down beside her on the bed. Beds are just beds with her. I could never tell her how odd that is, how lovely that is. How safe it is. No one knows that I haven't had a friend close to my age in years.

"I'm nervous." She admits, after a few moments of staring at her hands. She looks up at me, her eyes meeting mine. "About scoring."

I get a brief flash of memory from the night before my own scoring. I remember that night in feelings of intense nausea.

"It will be okay, I promise. It doesn't determine as much about you as it might seem. And I will be here waiting for you, ready to hear all about it the minute you get out." I reassure her.

She nods, but doesn't meet my eyes. She looks up at me again, and this gaze is so examining that I'm suddenly terrified she's going to ask me where I go all the time, or worse, what is wrong with me.

"What do you think I'll get?" She asks curiously.

I relax. "I think you'll get just the score you need."

She frowns. "Cheater. That's an evading answer."

I feign innocence. "Is it?"

She grins, and it's so abrupt that it makes warmth begin to stir in my heart.

"Just…on a scale from one to twelve. What number?" She tries again. She puts on the most pleading and heartbreaking face that I have to remind myself that she's joking around. Underneath that, I can sense desperation.

"Thirteen." I tell her, giving her a smirk that would make most girls melt. But underneath this, I can sense a tenderness I don't want to feel.

I think she senses it, too. Because her shoulders relax and she offers me a small smile.

"Thanks, Finnick." She says.

I am not able to keep my promise, though.

That afternoon, while I'm waiting for her to return, I receive a call from Head Peacekeeper Dougal. He sometimes makes President Snow's more urgent and threatening calls for him. He's a piece of shit, but at least he's more tolerable than Snow, and relatively harmless.

"You're needed on Starvine Avenue." He greets when I answer the phone. These words make my heart plummet. Starvine is the home to many depraved clients, including the man with the knives. I feel my heart rate pick up and all I can think is _not him not him not him. _

"For whom?" I ask, forcing my voice to stay calm.

"Maraschino Shrill. She is using her plus two card."

Maraschino Shrill is as perverted as the rest of them, but at least the sight of blood disgusts her. I unclench the hand I had unknowingly fisted around my glass of water, realizing I was probably only a few more moments away from shattering it. Some of my clients opted to buy "plus one" or "plus two" or even "plus three" cards, which basically meant they could pick the indicated number of their closest friends to get in on the activity. The first time I headed towards one of these meetings, I thought it would be better. I assumed that, with more people, there would be less attention on me. I soon learned it was the opposite. There just wasn't enough of me to go around. The first time I experienced four sets of hands grabbing for me, pulling on me, asking and asking and asking, I had to bite down so hard on my tongue that I almost bit right through it to keep myself from having a panic attack. It's easier now, of course, because I know what I'm getting into, but it's still unbelievably horrifying.

"Right. What time tonight?"

Dougal snorts. "Funny, Odair. Not tonight. Now. Do you think I'd be wasting my time calling now if it were in a few hours?"

I grip the phone tighter in my hand and lean forward a bit, as if appealing to him, like he is sitting in the chair across the room.

"I can't right now. My tributes are getting scored. I need to be there when they get back." I argue.

"Tough shit." He says shortly. I hear someone say something in the background, and I can tell he's about to end the conversation.

"Wait! Come on, listen, you can tell the client I'll give her another plus two card if she just waits a few hours." I attempt.

"Odair, knock off, now means now."

"I'll fuck you." I say, before I've even thought about it. It's been a long time since I've felt ashamed for saying those words. You do what you have to do. You do whatever you can. "If you tell Snow that you couldn't reach me, and convince the client to wait a few hours, we can fuck under the table. No transactions, no costs."

There's a long pause on the other end of the line, and when he speaks next, I realize he almost sounds a little disgusted.

"You're not my type. You have fifteen minutes. A car will be outside in five."

I blink at the phone in surprise when the line goes dead. It's funny, because I spend sleepless nights repulsed at the way I am treated like an object, but when my own attempts to treat myself that way fail I am surprised and annoyed. It figures that I could never use my body to get something for myself.

I think about leaving Annie a letter apologizing, but what exactly do I have to apologize for? I'm not her property and she isn't mine. I can go as I please. (But still, deep down, I know that I am going to let her down and simultaneously let myself down as well). I find Mags and tell her what the Head Peacekeeper said. I even tell her what lengths I tried to go to to keep from having to leave, because she looks disappointed in me, even though it isn't my fault. She sets a wordless hand on my shoulder and gives me an old smile.

* * *

Three pairs of hands crave my destruction. They want to rip me apart and keep me to themselves. By the time I'm back at the apartment, I'm covered in strategically clothed bruises and aching. Whenever I have to meet with clients during the day, when people will see me afterwards, my stylist has to erase the damage. This time, she erases it with an atrocious white suit that covers most of my skin. Each button could pay for two months' worth of food for a family back in District 4.

When I enter the apartment, I can hear Mags' and Annie's voices from the living room. I walk quickly, wincing against my discomfort while I still can, and when I enter I see them sitting across from each other. Mags is smiling at Annie, her eyes practically twinkling.

"It's funny how serendipitous mentor and tribute pairings can be." She's saying, and then I'm hurrying into the room, terrified about whatever damage Mags might be trying to cause.

"Aw, Mags, do you really think this is the time and place for matchmaking?" I tease. But Mags and I will have to have a conversation about this later. She can't brainwash Annie like that. No one would want me. No one could one me. Not really.

Annie looks up immediately, but she doesn't smile at me. That makes the back of my throat ache for whatever reason. I hope she isn't angry with me for not being here like I said I would be.

Mags looks away loftily.

"Sorry, Finnick, I didn't hear a word you just said. My hearing aid's turned off." She says.

I roll my eyes, and I see the corners of Annie's mouth twitch up. This gives me the courage to smile at her. Maybe I can make up for my absence now. The past is the past, best not to let it ruin the present as well.

"Well then, my dear friend!" I start. I walk over towards her, my eyes locked with hers. I fall down beside her on the couch, close enough to smell her shampoo but far enough that our thighs aren't touching. "How did it go?"

She hesitates for a moment, shooting Mags an uncertain look, but then she's looking back at me and bearing the full story.

"I made a large net, first. Like we worked on. And then I got one of the knives, but it was so much heavier than the ones we've been working with." She pauses. I fear where this is going. "When I got ready to throw the net at the target, I realized I had nowhere to put the knife…and I didn't want to set it down, because then an enemy could run right up and grab it hypothetically, so I put it in my mouth and bit down on it."

Risky and self-detrimental, but they probably didn't count much off for that if at all. They probably would have counted off for setting it on the ground, though. I nod at her encouragingly. She takes a deep breath and continues.

"Well, I threw the net and it landed on top of the target, and then I went to throw the knife, but I stopped."

She stops talking too, her forehead creased. She lets out a heavy sigh that blows some loose pieces of hair out of her face.

"You stopped?" I question carefully, worried once more. She better not mean she stopped completely and didn't throw it at all.

"Yeah. I just kind of paused, because…well, I know it's stupid. I know it is, and I told myself then that it was, but I couldn't get myself to throw it at the target. It looked too human. I freaked out. I don't know." She mumbles. She averts her gaze.

Oh Annie, Annie. What in the world am I going to do with her? How can I toughen her up in time for the arena? I know with sickening clarity that I can't. It's killed or be killed, and if she doesn't decide to kill, I can do nothing to save her. It's all on her.

I work hard to hide my disappointment and concern. I nod once more.

"When I finally worked up the courage to throw it, it stuck well in the belly of the target." She finishes. "And then I thanked them for watching. Can you believe that? I thanked them for watching me." She says incredulously. She lowers her face into her hands in shame.

I can believe that. Although, I'm not necessarily sure that was a bad thing. Maybe her politeness made them uneasy. We only have uneasiness to work with at this point.

"Don't even worry about pausing. It sounds like you did so well! Good job, Annie." I smile. My approval makes her feel much better almost instantly.

"Oh, and Finnick?" She says, a few moments later.

I look up at her, amused by the suddenly feisty look in her eyes.

"Hmm?" I ask.

"I did it with my hair down." She tells me.

At first the words confuse me, but then the memory comes back in full, partially forgotten previously due to the drugs the client made me take. I remember arguing lightheartedly with Annie while we practiced, telling her that she would never hit a target if she didn't pull all that hair back from her face. And I remember getting fed up and pulling it back myself. And how soft her skin felt as I touched the back of her neck. And the way she leaned back into my touch subconsciously, the curve of her ass barely brushing my crotch for the slightest moment, before we were apart again.

I'm suddenly uncomfortable, the back of my neck warming. I shift on the couch, momentarily panicked that I'm going to get a hard on. I haven't been naturally turned on by anything or anyone in a very long time; I've had to rely on Capitol medicines. The hazy, drug-tainted memory of the skin on the back of some girl's neck definitely isn't going to do it.

And yet, I rise from the couch abruptly, my heart beating just a little too fast and my thoughts just a little too scattered.

"Goodnight, Annie. You did great today." I tell her. She thanks me softly, and then I hurry off to my room, scared of myself.

I'm fine once I'm back in my room. Dinner goes by without event and without cause for further worry. But I'm not even sure what I'm worried about in the first place, and when I try to sit and think about what it was that freaked me out, I can't even get my mind to do that. I push it away, just like I do for most everything else unpleasant.

Annie and I sit beside each other in the living room and wait for the scores to be announced. I've sat through this same exact thing countless times, but for whatever reason, I'm actually nervous this time. From the corner of my eye, I can see Annie nervously wringing her hands and biting her lip. The couch is shaking as she anxiously bounces her leg up and down. Eventually, her anxiety begins to get to me as well, and I reach over and set my hand on her leg without even thinking about it. She falls still immediately.

"Everything will be fine." I promise her. I meet her eyes and count the different shades. Someone should know that Annie Cresta has four different shades of green in her eyes before she dies. Someone should—

I force myself out of that mindset quickly. I turn back to the television.

The Careers get high scores, as usual. I have to hide my visible shock when it's announced that Chiron, our male tribute, got a ten. I definitely wasn't expecting that. I look at him as Mags hugs him, grinning ear to ear, and he looks a little pleased with himself. He should be, considering that he and a tribute from District 1 are tied for the highest score so far.

I think about reaching over and taking Annie's hand, but that seems a bit much. When they announce that she received a six, I'm pleased. I wrap my arm around her shoulders. She feels so frail when I hold her like this that, and even though I really am content with the score, I can't help but feel my heart drop.

"That's great, Annie! You did well enough to seem competent but you won't be made into an immediate target." I tell her. She looks a little better with that score after I say that.

Annora gives an obviously fake smile. "Well, Annie, it could be much worse."

I glare at her. To make sure these words haven't discouraged Annie, I turn back to her and tap the tip of her nose. She smiles almost immediately.

"Who knew our little Annie Cresta had it in her!" I tease.

She pretends to glare, but eventually smiles at me again. I'm thinking about that six as Annora begins talking about something or another that no one cares about. Even with hesitating, she pulled a six, which means she either didn't let the reason of her hesitation show or is one hell of a thrower. When practicing with her, she was eventually pretty good, but it was nothing remarkable. Perhaps she's better under pressure. Or perhaps that were as thrown by this girl as I am.

I turn and look at her as she pretends to be enthralled by Annora's conversation, and I can't help but feel a little frustrated with her. I just want to understand who she is and why she can make me so confident and so unsure of her all at the same time. I want her to stop being whatever she is that makes me want to know her, because I don't want to know her. I can't want to know her.

I have to look away from her quickly when she begins to speak, as if I'm afraid to be caught looking at her.

"I was just thinking…I see a good amount of children around the Capitol, but I've never once seen a pregnant woman." She observes.

I wonder where her head was that she would even think of something like that. Maybe she was thinking about all she's going to miss out on in life. I remember then, briefly, just how hard it is to be in her shoes.

Annora laughs in embarrassment. Pregnancy is a taboo subject in the Capitol, along with anything else regarding bodies except sex. It's considered dirty and lowly, and women pay other women to carry their children for them. It's a job that's given near the same respect as being a waitress or a plumber. The surrogate mothers aren't even allowed to go out in public. It's considered "indecent". The Capitol doesn't see the things that we see back in the districts. It doesn't see how beautiful women look, with their stomachs round and their faces alight with excitement. And because Annora doesn't see that, she doesn't understand why Annie would ever bring something like that up, so I step in to help bridge the cultural gap.

"Annora, in District 4 they do things differently. Women usually go out freely the entire time they're pregnant." I provide.

Annora looks baffled.

"The mothers don't mind?" She asks.

Annie looks between Annora and I.

"Mothers? They're the mothers." She says feebly, but she sounds uncertain herself, like she's wondering if that's even the way it really is after all.

I shift to the right, and I don't even jump when my body makes contact with the side of Annie's. She's warm and I want to protect her from this. I want to protect her from the disgusting ways of the Capitol before they destroy her like they destroyed me.

"Once the baby is born, yes!" Annora agrees with Annie. She stares, still confused.

"Annie, women in the Capitol employ other women to carry and then give birth to their children. These women stay in the house of the expecting mother until after the delivery." Mags explains.

Annie looks appalled. Her eyes widen and her mouth opens, and it's almost adorable.

Annora is similarly shocked. She's eying Annie's reaction and making deductions of her own.

"You mean women carry their own babies in District 4? And go out in public during it?" She breathes, scandalized.

Annie nods. Annora covers her mouth with her hand.

"How dreadful!" She gasps.

I can read it clearly on Annie's face that she thinks it's the other way around. I worry then that she thinks I prefer the Capitol ways. And so I push this topic to the back of my mind and tuck it away, prepared to bring it up once we're alone again.

Annora declares then that she wants to teach Annie Dried Dowry, a very popular Capitol card game. I actually don't mind the game, so Mags and I play with them. Annie's very quick to catch onto the rules and I decide I want to be on her team.

"Annie and I against Annora and Mags!" I declare.

Mags glares at me. "Fine, traitor."

I smile apologetically at her. "Sorry, Mags. I have a good feeling about this one." I reach over and rest a hand on Annie's leg again, without even meaning to, and I think she might pick up on my discomfort this time when I quickly remove it like I've burned myself.

Annie is just as quick as I thought she'd be. She has us ten points ahead with ease. We're, quite honestly, kicking Mags' and Annora's asses when Annora decides to start talking about her favorite topic: The Hunger Games.

"Oh, my favorite kill of all time though was in the 60th Games. Did you see that one? No? Well, it was marvelous. The tribute from one sharpened a stick, you see, and pushed it right through the other tribute's stomach so he was pinned—literally!—to the ground. He couldn't move anywhere. And then he…"

Annora continues talking, but I only have eyes for Annie. She is spellbound by Annora's words, her hand with the cards lowering and her lips slightly parted. When she grimaces, most likely from the mental image of Annora's graphic descriptions, I decide this is the last thing she needs right now. I gently take the cards from her hand and throw them down on top of the table, along with mine.

"Bye, losers!" I say cheerfully. I wordlessly take Annie's hand, and even stranger, she wordlessly follows me.

By the time we're on the roof, she looks a lot calmer and less disturbed. I sit down beside her and observe the skyline in a comfortable silence. When that same silence begins to feel heavy, I turn to look at her.

"The Capitol is a very corrupt place." I explain, both in regards to the pregnancy taboo and Annora's bloodlust.

"You know, I didn't really think that until today. I mean I knew that they were wrong, but I just chalked it up to cultural differences. The…disgust of their lifestyles didn't really hit until today." She answers, surprise coloring her tone.

I reach over without even considering why and run my fingers through her hair. Her shoulders drop just a little bit, and I take that to mean it feels good. I play with the soft strands, braid them and unbraid them, contemplating what to say to that.

"My mother always said that the most amazing part of being a parent was learning to love something more than you love yourself. I don't think anyone here knows anything about that." I know they don't, because I'm in their bed almost every night. I never feel loved.

She wraps her arms around her stomach and nods in agreement. I have a brief flash of her in their beds, her long legs wrapped tightly around some strange man's waist, and I have to wonder if that would make her feel loved. Or if she'd cry herself to sleep every night like I want to. I don't ever want to have to find out.

"The sooner you're out of the Capitol, the better. It's an awful place. District 4 has its faults, but it's better than this. Anywhere is better than here." I mumble.

She is privileged to not understand what I really mean by that.


End file.
